Thaw in the Berkshires
the crocus at the end of winter
By Anthony Botti
So early, it’s almost dark.
It’s nearly time now.
I have lost my concentration
in one of the coldest
winters on record. Yet
I observe day by day
the arrival of a new season.
The turn of another spring tends to make
me melancholy, worn out from the strain
demanded to heave myself up through the earth.
I long to be rescued. No one comes, not
to my surprise. It must be the Catholic
in me—to struggle with my own desire.
It’s time to exert myself, steeled
against a late frost. Yet I dislike
feeling abandoned to my own life.
The damp dirt where I lie enfolded
gives off a complex organic scent
that I can trust. The spear blasts
through the soil under an unbroken
sky—what resolve I am meant to summon.
In the end, what survives winter? Pressed
into the light, I live for as long
as I bloom. Then the purple petals curl and drop. I think I can live with that.
Anthony Botti is the author of the poetry collection Where It Will. His poetry has appeared in The Comstock Review, The MacGuffin, Cider Press Review, Blueline, Flint Hills Review, and Mudfish. He holds a Master of Divinity (M.Div.) from Harvard Divinity School. His work has been nominated for both a Pushcart Prize and the Thom Gunn Award for gay poetry. He divides his time between Boston and the Berkshires with his partner and their pug, Puck.
