Poem: Promise


by Anne McCrady 


On the grayest day

in winter, when even wet boots

would be better than the best

news you have heard lately,

and you need to clear the table

of your latest temptations

to be some place else,

take out a clean canvas.

Spill the milk of cirrus silk

across a spring-starched sky.

Draw an arrow, a piney line

pointing the way to heaven.

Give it limbs for fletching.

Fill the foreground

with the wild abandon

of azalea blossoms, honeysuckle

trumpets, redbud beads.

Add doe print, coon track,

webs of finest spider weave.

Count the miracles behind you;

consider the ones to come.

Recite the earthy promise

of the buckeye in your pocket:

another April in East Texas

is more than any man’s fair share

of grace or good luck.

 From Anne's poetry collection, Letting Myself In


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