Chicory

A poem in memory of my wife

When the chicory blooms, you’re there.

When lightning splits the clouds

And thunder cracks

And rivulets flood the irises,

You’re there.

When leaves don warm colors of cool autumn

And pumpkins break out in toothy grins

As saints lend souls their guiding hands,

You’re there.

When the Child is in the manger,

And wise ones kneel,

Your joyous smile is there;

Among snow and ice, wind and dark,

Your warming hands are there.

When planting comes,

When the pollen flies —

not your favorite, I know —

Among the young shoots, you’re there.

The sun walks his rounds.

The cosmos turns.

And when the chicory blooms,

You’re there.

I’ve never considered myself to be a poet. The last time I even attempted to write a poem was probably 25 or 30 years ago.

Today, I noticed some chicory growing alongside the road at the edge of my yard. Kathleen always said she knew our anniversary was approaching when the chicory bloomed. She’d said that for 25 years. She first noticed it a few days before we got married in 1977. Seeing it in the yard now, about one year after her passing— it was like she had put it there for me.

So…I wrote this for her. All of the elements are, well, her. Feel free to ask about any of them if you wish. I like talking about her.