Winter, this year,
like the dream
in which I must
call someone
but I cannot
remember who
it is, only
how important
that I call.
When I wake,
I walk to the phone,
but waking
brings me no
closer to remembering.
Off the porch,
the pansies
wear plum
and gold—
there is summer
in their softness.
I stare at them.
Who is it
I am supposed
to call? And
what has happened
to winter?
The sky
turns a bluer
shade of blue.
The pansies
nod. Whatever
they know,
they’re not telling.