Transfiguration

By May Grant

The ground is littered with my babies.
The dead poems lie in snowbanks,
serene and sere.

When did my words arrive stillborn?
When did my rhyme turn icy cold?
Here and there a tiny fingernail,
a turn of phrase like a rosy cheek,
a metered leg lies still.

But now they rise like dawn’s sharp edge.
The wind knocks on dark church doors.
White-rimmed and strong, my wings toss and climb.

The ground lies littered with my flowers,
white and pink and tan
raise their fingered arms to the sky,
children tall and strong.

They cast my poems aloft.
I fall to my knees and crush them
into my arms.

Here and there a teenage grin,
a withered smile,
a halting gait
lifts my fresh new words to the altar.

May Cornelia Grant has been writing all her life, non-professionally. Her articles have appeared in numerous small magazines and newspapers.