Snowdrop surge

poetry
Written By Lindsay Kellar-Madsen

Late blizzards settle like a sequined dress.

And yet, the snowdrops are stirring

deep in their cavern of rot. What dares

the buried bulbs to blink

and face the hoar frost?

The robin? A gale? Sparks from Saint Brigid’s

flint set to stone? Whatever the music,

green fingers conjure and chisel. Splice

up through the frozen weave. White-breasted

bodies whisper to sisters

asleep under autumn straw—

crocus, primrose, wild violet.

The yard breathes

beneath winter’s canvas. A patchwork

is needled with prayer. But first, a sky

of button-tufted clouds.

A field of pearl-capped pins. Snow-petals

mount their surge from the dark.

Lindsay Kellar-Madsen

Lindsay Kellar-Madsen writes compulsively in rare sleeves of time. She lives in the Danish countryside with her husband and four children, who only wear shoes when necessary. Some of her poems live with The Shore, Humana Obscura, Cottonmouth, Porkbelly Press and Mom Egg Review. Other work is forthcoming with swamp pink. Her latest children's book is “Meet the Wild” (2023).

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