between James Wright and Mary Oliver

BY REILLY COX

Violets are blooming by my backdoor

in December, a week before the New Year.

It is remarkable to be alive. It is remarkable

how the grasses and weeds have recovered

from the fires not half a year ago. Among

the rabble at my feet, clover with its spike-

white flowers; dead nettle with its towered

coughs of purple; sorrel and its sleepy

prayers to fuschia. I remember my life

as if I have lived it and in this way I know

that it has been a bad year. Even the yard

keeps memories of burning. In faint circles

I can find debris: chars of words; shines of envelope

scraps; carbon, carbon, carbon. Now, violets

the weed killer missed; kicks of lumber

from the bookshelves I built; trails

from running dogs and what dogs leave,

wherefrom those violets no doubt grew.

In this way, we move on: the broken chair

by the door becomes more broken; the mail comes

for a previous tenant, vital and presorted;

the warblers divine for seeds, parting the blades

with holy beaks; and the red wasps rest

a winter away, begging for spring.

Is this how you hope to be remembered?

Reilly D. Cox lives in the desert with felines & beloveds. They attended Washington College, the Bucknell Seminar for Younger Poets, & the University of Alabama, where they received their MFA. They are the author of The Death of Sargon the Gardner (Seven Kitchen Press) & have work available w/ Always Crashing, Cosmonauts Avenue, & elsewhere.