that would settle,
hushed and gentle,
I grew weary of waiting
in the bony lap of winter
longed for the life that emerges,
burgeons and converges
after a bitter cold.
I needed honeysuckle and May apple
to clear my heart of January-
instead I have thorn and thistle,
sun-blanched bramble and bristle,
limbs that bears no fruit.
Fevered breezes bring little ease
and highway mirages remind me
of a barren garden, an empty chair
dust devils in the air,
I long for the numbness of cold.
~ Robin St. James
As a life-long learner, Robin St James has taken nearly every literature and history course available, but has concentrated on American Literature and African American Studies. St James has had work published in The Blue Island Review, KU’s Kiosk and Comma Splice, and other literary publications.