Mariana Tupper

Dream of Green

I walk on air and water
three feet above the frozen ground.
Inside my boots, my toes
reach expectantly for sandy soil,
sensing the dormant vegetables
below.
Where is the garden?
Now hard as ledge beneath the snow.

Recollections of leaves pressed flat
draw me onward --
star-shaped biennials
and trailing vines,
the miracle of reincarnation
hidden in the ground.
Who is to say
summer vanished in the fall?

Beside me,
frosted apple-saplings
glisten in the morning light.
Snow, masquerading as whipped cream,
covers the site of last year’s amazing
blueberry harvest.
Inside my winter coat,
my body is as hot as summer.

The sky itself gives no hint
as to which season it is today --
soft clouds, blue air,
and endless stretch of stars
no more visible than the food beneath my feet.
Everywhere I look
is evidence of the unseen.

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