Some Things Die before Called • Patricia Williams

Big box stores
ran end-of-winter sales;
the groundhog predicted
spring was soon to come;
the calendar revealed
winter had concluded,

but winter never ended,
spring never came.

April drizzle,
not sweet and languid,
but sleety and raw
like February,
spat ice and snow
over broken souls;

winter never ended,
spring never came.

The globe is murky,
the solar star frozen,
the lunar orb immobilized;
we long for something
not to be found,
some dead before called.

You left in winter;
spring never came.


Patricia Williams lives in the Wisconsin countryside
with her husband; she retired after 27 years of
teaching at the University of Wisconsin – Stevens P
oint and has had poems published in both online
and print journals in the U.S. and England,
including Lake City Lights, Star*Line Journal,
Camel Saloon, Stoneboat, Middlebrow, Your Daily
Poem, Fox Cry and others.