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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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