January – A Poem by Mary Fontana

January – A Poem by Mary Fontana

As some of you know, the final issue of my Woolgathering magazine featured poetry.

This beautiful and timely poem was written by my dear friend, Mary Fontana, whom I met while volunteering at Annunciation House (a couple of decades ago-yikes!) 

Follow Mary on Instagram @maryfontanawrites   as she embarks on a new writing project accounting the history of Annunciation House. Thanks Mary for being a part of this final issue, for being my friend, and for doing amazing, heartfelt work! Cheers to you!

January

By Mary Fontana

“Contrary to popular belief, tree roots do not penetrate deep into the soil…

In reality the overall shape of a tree will look like a wine glass.”

–Trees: An Illustrated Identifier and Encyclopedia,

by Russell and Cutler

The feasts are finished,

the bottles emptied. Every glass

in the vast cupboard of the boreal

forest shaken dry of its last crimson drop

and shut up on the shelf

of winter. Swells of bare branches

fill now only with sky, with mist,

the occasional ripple of a line of birds,

no crystal ringing in this austere season

unless an ice-storm

has blown through, filmed each form,

waking us in the night with the smash

of a weighted bough on tiles

of frozen snow. Improbably, below,

earthworms hold heat,

twined around roots no longer new,

roots that have halted their excavations

at the limit of that circle, invisible to them,

that the branches overhead inscribe in air.

How they speak, bowl to base, branch to root,

is a mystery, but that they speak is clear.

And we who have drunk deeply,

who have, it must be admitted,

a bit of a headache, a sore belly,

who are a touch burnt from the bonfires

of harvesttime, now curl up

like the earthworms,

swear off the season’s wild excesses.

It can be enough

in these dim days to slip

one’s arms around the fragile stem

of a tree, rest one’s cheek against

its coolness. We await a wine

no less golden than the sun

in its return, infinitesimal at first,

at which the sap will rise in empty pipes,

the boughs like cupped hands will brim

with fragrance and green flicker,

and birds will pour from the south to set

for spring the hemisphere’s wide tables.