The Crocus

The Crocus

Something struck my heart once.
It wasn't a sting or a stab or a sticking of sorts
but a striking shard of sentiment
that made my heart stop.

It turned my meticulous monotony
into an operatic heart-wrenching melody
and although I cannot trace where it first began
the change in beat is ever fresh.

Following the musical rhythm, I found a garden
of boys and girls, chanting familiar chansons
with lungs so clear and innocent
that assumed the air from my own
and left me breathless.

In this moment, only my heart knew
how to slow down to allow me another chance.

I did not want another chance.

Like a toppling pillar
my life curved on a downward slope beneath the ground
awakening my dreams, putting to bed my delusions,
turning on the light of the afterlife.

My eyes stretched over the park, the kids at play, singing
songs of the earth of which I would soon be a part.
My life held a quiet semblance of truth
that I could find after all.

Pictures that filled my photo albums once
do not appear in the final cut of what I remember best
be it the subdued lions at the zoo
or my mother ironing her dress
all memories that have no meaning
in this last minute of dreaming

my heart opens its doors while my lungs close theirs
as a little girl brings me a flower,
a crocus, to which she was once deathly allergic
affects her not a single spot
since she embraced them for an hour
before she came to the garden.

She asks if I like the flower,
but I cannot speak.
I place her hand on my heart
for one last beat
and slip into the semblance of a smile
that fades her face from mine.

Andrew Vlasblom

They never grow up

They never grow up.

And if they do, it's not by their own choice,
but by the choice ones who claim ownership
of the weaklings--the kicking, screaming, hatched fetuses
that have no say in the matter.

And if they did, they would choose to never age,
if only to spare themselves the pain
of perpetuating the process known as parenthood
and playing protagonist roles
while flying selfish colours of pride.

Misinfants of miscreants, why do you continue on?
Why not stop while you're ahead, fine-tune your present song?

Their weakness is their strength,
for in it they cannot grip
the weight of one small infant
struggling to bite its lip
amongst other things, of course,
like bullets and peppermints
and pieces of broken heirlooms
and family fingerprints
that are nowhere to be found

They cry now over the the most minuscule things!
Here, it's only hungry. The pacifier'll tide it over
'til morning.

'Til morning,
a storm rages
and threatens the hollow inside
so easily breakable
by the ravaging blizzard
that intensifies
and then

peace, met by a cold, pale hush.
The storm has settled, and all that remains
is an impeccably spread blanket of snow
covering its territory serenely
yielding such fruits as only winter can bring--

Grandma, look here!

Poor little thing, guess it was just too weak.
Here, fetch your Grandpa and a spade.
And open the window while you're at it,
it's gettin' mighty warm in here.

Poor little thing. Guess it'll never grow up.

She never grew up.

Andrew Vlasblom