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Astilbe
by Sarah Sadie

Fortressed, buttressed, mattressed
     between a tall, white sky
          and horizon's sweep and freeze,

a nimble of chickadees
     on tree-like balustrades
          and mailbox bulwarks,

and we've strapped on metal treads
     as though to walk a block
          we're scaling mountainsides

while deep in her basement, the queen
     dreams of astilbe. Astilbe.
          They've never bloomed, but maybe,

after a winter like this‐
     she wants to think something could,
          in that dark backyard patch

she's never figured out,
     could rise, feathery, plush,
          pink and red in flames.

The queen dreams.

And cars nose slow between
     the padded walls of snow
          we've cleared from streets and doorsteps.

 

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