by Patrice M. Wilson

Budding heather 
seems delicate 
as skin fragile 
as human veins
purple-blue 
with a hint of pink
in the hand
or at the wrist.

Should anyone be
so hard as to 
nail this fine 
dainty-looking 
flower to wood
or pin it down
in a lifeless
sepulcher

who would cry out 
for its rescue
who would lament 
its passing

knowing that 
there will be
all those lovely 
pink peonies
later on, lilies 
trumpeting
sweet whiteness 
around Easter
and our reddest 
fragrant roses
blooming full 
and strong though weak 
and thornful—

but a little while
you will see them,
and a little 
while you will 
not see them—

while a certain 
blossoming plant
always rises 
from near ground,
thrives all winter
flourishes year-round.

Born Catholic in Newark NJ, raised in Catholic schools, Patrice M. Wilson has a PhD in English from the University of Hawaii at Manoa, having earned her MA there and her BA at the University of Maryland, College Park. She was editor of the very fine Hawaii Pacific Review for 16 years while teaching at Hawaii Pacific University. She has three chapbooks of poetry with Finishing Line Press, and one full-length poetry collection with Christian publisher eLectio Publishing. Dr. Wilson recently spent five years in the cloistered Carmelite monastery in Kaneohe, HI. She is now a retired professor living in Mililani, Oahu, HI.