Reception

I will set a table
For my soul
Among the trees

Quiet, I will wait
Beneath a canopy of leaves

Let stillness be the table
Let silence be the cloth
Let sunlight be the service, gleaming
My seat a bed of moss

I will set a table
For my soul
Out in the wild

Calling her to come
And play, as if she were a child

Let soft winds be the music
Let flowers be the dance
Let butterflies be our hearts, weaving
Patterns out of chance

I will set a table
For my soul
In forest glade

Inviting her to rest
And feast, on Bread no hands have made

Let wonder be the blessing
Let laughter be the prayer
Let forgiveness be our cup, healing
And let Love be the fare

I will set a table
For my soul
Where woods are deep

And wide enough for two
Or more, so you can sit by me

© Nichole Q. Perreault, April 2021

Expectant Mother

Winter’s coming
I try, and fail, to outrun
His cold fingers
As they grab at my ankles

Like a rat, he nibbles
At the edges of the day
So slowly that, at first, I hardly notice
The dark encroaching

Until the dimming of the skies
Reaches the space behind my eyes
And I can feel my mind
Sundowning

Winter’s coming
Drifting through the garden
Settling scores, he moans
An elegy in minor key

I drift, too, among the naked branches
Their fallen raiment, now dull
And stained with mold,
Crunch beneath my boots

For a moment, this feels like drowning
So I breathe deep the icy
Mildewed tang of November
Close my eyes, open them again

Then – there, just there
On the sleepy rhododendron: a bud
Wrapped tight, all bundled up
Against the coming snows

There are dozens, maybe hundreds
More, I pause
And study the one
Or perhaps she studies me

Suspended, the silence expands
In my chest
Rich, glowing, like a hot air balloon
In a dusky sky

Packed away, inside this
Tiny idle embryo
There lies a flower
Purple, fragrant, larger than my hand

I see her, Oh I see her,
Or does she see me?
All I know is Winter’s coming
But Spring’s already here

©Nichole Q. Perreault, January 2020