The Fruits of Tomorrow



I push my way through the iron gates,
Complaining above a screaming wind -
Surprised they opened so easily -
It must be a trap.

No sign of the sun in the sky above,
Just an all-encompassing cloudy-gray glow;
No glistening crystals in the snow;
No darkened shadows to trace the passage of time.

My footprints so deep,
I can’t really sense the earth beneath.
Despite a gut-wrenching guilt,
I continue across this virgin landscape.

The white pillowy mounds in rows,
Like hibernating predators waiting for Spring.
Or to spring upon a passing warm body?
Memory, don’t fail me now.  Lead me through this minefield.

The windblown snow has highlighted the skeletal trees,
Now appearing as upside-down lightning bolts,
Frozen in lightless, shadowless time -
Nature’s Winter sculptures.

How will I find my way in this wasteland?
How will I find what I seek?
What was that?  A movement to my left.
I stare into the wind, eyes blinking wildly.

Like a rapid series of snapshots,
I trudge ten steps, twenty, thirty;
Icicles dangle from my eyelashes,
And I near the suspect area.

A lone seedling shivers bare in the wind,
Standing guard over a grave.
Jittery little sparrows peck through the snow,
Uncovering unknown fallen fruit or seeds.

The birds frighten easily, but don’t stray far.
They watch me from a nearby fence-line,
As I kneel before the blanketed headstone,
And scrape away a layer of icy snow.

As each engraved letter of the name appears,
It seems the sun loosens the day’s cloudy chokehold,
And for the briefest of moments, I know she’s here
To bathe in the golden warmth and soak-up my tears.



Don L. Waddell, 1997