Poetry by Deborah Doolittle
Little bush, gone are the leaves we
lunched on. Gone, too, your green shrubby
symmetry. So like a tree you
stood in the windowsill to view
your cousins—fennel, basil, dill—
thrive then succumb to winter’s chill.
You alone saw the snow blanket
everything in white. Now to get
to this season of brittle twigs
that snap, not bend, devoid of sprigs
that we can eat. I pull your bottom
out, the dirt and roots all clotted
together in the shape of your
container, and I conjecture
on how we should all do so well
with our allotted spot to dwell.
Deborah H. Doolittle, born in Hartford, Connecticut, now calls North Carolina home. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of Floribunda and three chapbooks. Some poems have recently appeared in Cloudbank, Comstock Review, Kakalak, and Iconoclast. She shares a home with her husband, four housecats, and a backyard of birds.
