Judy Kronenfeld Verse-Virtual 2017 July

July 2017

I am a New Yorker by birth, the child of immigrant European parents, but have lived with my husband in Riverside, California, since 1969. We are the parents of two very international children, and grandparents of four. My most recent books of poetry are Light Lowering in Diminished Sevenths (2nd edition, Antrim House, 2012), winner of the 2007 Litchfield Review Poetry Book Prize, Shimmer (WordTech, 2012), and Bird Flying through the Banquet (FutureCycle, 2017). I am often an elegaic poet, concerned with and fascinated by memory; for more information, and a selection of my poems and prose, please see http://judykronenfeld.com.

Thaw

I saw it, mid-walk with the dog,
towering, spiky-leaved,
and could not think
of its name, a name
even more beautiful
than the tree—and that nothingness
like fog, pressed against
my eyes; a curtain
of thick grey gauze annulled
the dazzling world.

But, over the tip
of my tongue, a tiny, teasing,
invisible angel, emissary of that
glory, wings beating fast
as a hummingbird’s, hovered.

And made me think
    ambergris,
made me think
    waterfall,
then diverted me with
false aralia, before rewarding me
with
    sweet gum

but not the name I longed for,
until three long blocks to my
door, when the angel became
an iridescent bird, poking
her wand into the burning
roses, and the fog
in my mouth melted
like spun sugar
    liquidambar.

Originally published in Natural Bridge 18 (Fall, 2007).

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