Catalogue
The snow swirls at the window sills,
The drifts are high,
The pale-gold winter sunlight spills
From a cold sky;
But in my hands I hold a small
And lovely thing:
A nursery catalogue, with all
The light of spring
And summer in it, as I turn
A page and see
Tulips, and scarlet poppies burn
Their fires for me.
Across the winter whiteness drifts
The misty red
Of peonies, and blue smoke lifts
From a larkspur bed.
I warm my heart at a crimson rose;
These berries fee
My hunger, and an apple glows
To meet my need.
Swirl at my window, snow, and see
If you can imprison me!
Grace N. Crowell
From My Mother's Poetry Notebook
I can see my mother pouring over her seed and bulb catalogues. My mother could grow anything; she had such a green thumb! She also drew plans/ maps for her flower and vegetable gardens. They were a lot of work, but I believe they gave her great joy. My heart is gladdened to think of my mother, especially in her planning for growing things.
The snow swirls at the window sills,
The drifts are high,
The pale-gold winter sunlight spills
From a cold sky;
But in my hands I hold a small
And lovely thing:
A nursery catalogue, with all
The light of spring
And summer in it, as I turn
A page and see
Tulips, and scarlet poppies burn
Their fires for me.
Across the winter whiteness drifts
The misty red
Of peonies, and blue smoke lifts
From a larkspur bed.
I warm my heart at a crimson rose;
These berries fee
My hunger, and an apple glows
To meet my need.
Swirl at my window, snow, and see
If you can imprison me!
Grace N. Crowell
From My Mother's Poetry Notebook
I can see my mother pouring over her seed and bulb catalogues. My mother could grow anything; she had such a green thumb! She also drew plans/ maps for her flower and vegetable gardens. They were a lot of work, but I believe they gave her great joy. My heart is gladdened to think of my mother, especially in her planning for growing things.
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