The garden’s song
has not ended.
It still calls
to my soul,
whispers promises
of health and happiness.
And there is a hole in the wall.
Could that gap
also be a failure
in the wards?
I remember the way
the wards faded
when the Giant stepped
into the garden.
When one foot
was in and one out.
And the newest plan
taking root
in my mind sprouts
leaves and buds
and unfurls into
a full-blown flower.
I try to poke a
finger into the hole,
but my bulky glove
will not fit.
I pull it off,
let icy wind burn.
My pinkie
is now small enough
to slide in,
meets
no resistance at all.
I think
I am sure
I know
there are no wards in this spot.
The Giant should have noticed.
Should have been more careful.
And yet …
here it is
a tiny gap
just big enough
to hold my pinkie and
a thimbleful of hope.
BROB
A Spark of Magic
We can’t stand the cold of the garden for long,
so I try to be quick. Ma hovers over my shoulder
like a pesky fly constantly buzzing in my ear—one that
won’t go away no matter how many times you swat at it.
I put the shimmery disc onto frozen ground and will the
magic inside to transform into something anything.
A flower a bud a sprig of green.
Ma grunts her disapproval when nothing happens.
No spark of magic after one minute. Or three.
Not after five l o n g minutes of Winter Spirits
gnawing at my furs, hoping to reach flesh and bone.
Ma grunts again (her only response lately) and turns to go.
My shoulders slump as I reach to pick the Fermata back up.
But just then my garden sings.
I can feel its connection to the hollow-
faced girl. She is just beyond my wall.
And for a split second a thought flits through my head—
a blizzard-begotten urge to let her in. With the thought comes
a PULL.
A vibration in my chest. I hum. A spark shoots
through me into the disc under my fingers.
I jump back with a jolt.
“What’s wrong?” Ma says, turning around.
She stares, mouth gaping, eyes wide.
At the tiny sprout of a tree that has just shot out of the ground.