by Lorna Shaughnessy
I could not say
I felt like a walking miracle
as we travelled south
on the first day of spring.
Snow on the Burren
fleshed out skeletal stones,
stopped gaps in the walls
so the air could not pass
and the valley sank deeper
into smothered soundlessness.
Three swans heaved across the lake
in burdensome flight,
the huff and cronk of the long pull
echoless on the blanketed stone.
I went to the well
in search of no more miracles
than those already worked:
the vanishing act conjured
by the surgeon’s hand,
the venomous magic
that coils around the cup.
I went to leave flowers,
draw water and listen to its song,
gather round the fire
to hear words recited,
familiar lines sung
and recall absent voices.
To be thankful
at the end of a long year
of days when I hated
having to be grateful.
On that two-faced morning
I could look back
at my bloodied footprints
and see them fill with snow,
then turn to face the blank page.
01.02.2008