Springtime on Stage
Margaret Adams Birth


And now that the snow has departed, my counselor,
my friend, that blue haze of which you spoke
has materialized while you waited, feet propped on desk,
watching old men on canes shuffling toward the fire hall for
their weekly poker game. It was not truly
blue, you said, or a game, but only
a window through which to watch a changing
tableau of actors backstage between scenes.

I fell asleep too easily, and woke afraid,
fearful that I may have missed the coming
of that blue fog that rises from the melting snow
and signals so much more . . .
A doctor was leading me out of a trance,
my mind still compartmentalized
into neat little, half-empty boxes
that echoed with the hum and underlying, regular clicks
of a tape recorder continuing to run; I  could see
foothills far below and cities sprouting
concrete atop dull asphalt, while, just outside
the door, I could sense gray, barren trees
reaching branches toward me in supplication.
“S-s-save us-s-s-s-s,” winter’s final winds
demand, but new buds have already begun
to force their way through frost-laden limbs.

Three months ago, I interpreted ink blots to your
satisfaction: this is a snow angel,
that an icicle, this other frost on a pine needle:
I was so obvious, you chuckled—obvious but sane.
And now that the snow has departed, I wonder
if that blue haze will swallow us all into eternal obscurity . . .