Mud Season
A winter of withholding
over. Your love
sings “Águas de Março”
in the other room,
and even though he sings
in another language,
you know the song
and hum with him
from the kitchen sink
as you listen,
as you unfurl a little,
as, just down the trail,
bloodroot upwells
through loosening ground.
It’s the mud, it’s the mud.
All your amnesia
about spring effaced
by spring ephemerals,
swamp lantern
lit by downpour,
and the creek vein
streaming the last holdover
of frozen snow
toward the delta.
Author Bio: Ellie A. Rogers writes in St. Paul, Minnesota. She is a poetry editor at The Hopper. You can read her recent work in Cincinnati Review, Cold Mountain Review, and Ecotone, or at elliearogers.com.
