Cherie Hunter Day

Sticks

It's mid-March and pails of pussy willow branches are set up in a tier outside Whole Foods. The furry catkins are barely visible beneath dark brown scales. When I lived in Maine I used to go out in the wet woods in search of these first signs of renewal. My fingertips remember the numbing cold when I removed my mittens to cut the smooth twigs. Now I watch a woman dressed in business attire examine each bar-coded bunch.

pen display
at the checkout register—
brink of wordlessness