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.