Poem of the Week


By Harry Waitzman

21 miles from the tumult of Times Square,
below the blink of light from HI Tor,
South Mountain Road snakes a narrow
ribbon of asphalt, wears a green skirt
and dances into the spring of 1942.

Daffodils shush the noise of winter’s
retreat, icicles dripping on window sills.
April nudges May’s hidden bulbs
to explode yellow on retinas and blast
holes in snow lying on northern slopes.

Like the late snow, freckled and gnarled
by melt, I’m unable to bite back. Grinning
to my bent toes, I laugh at sleet and clap
as snow shovels clean walks. Jimmy Valentine
and I survive this winter’s lonely bleakness.

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