Snowdrops (Prose Poem) Poem by Val Morehouse

On the 5th of January, Twelfth Night, the pine tree, a silent presence in the
window began to chirrup. I thought the chortling in the darkness must be
some poor bird, perhaps a starling, lost in the snow, or a sparrow
roused from sleep, its head untucked from its wing, and it confused
by my pen strokes snowshoeing across the papers on my desk.

But the wind was empty. Snow crusted and clutched soil with confidence.
I conceived the fancy of a bird frozen in mid-flight by the blizzard,
even now salting into my shingled box of a garden. Surely some thing
had given up the ghost. Yes. Died. The pine tree standing in its way
played that lost soul over and over among its needles even as a

Phonograph needle shivers with the cold voice recorded, in spite of itself.
For days I was content with this charming thought, busying myself with the
slitting of envelopes, march of coffee cups, shower of bits and pieces
into the wastebaskets of my existence. But the tree kept up its melodic
continuum of squeaks and chirrups in the night, if I cared to listen.

I don’t remember when it occurred to me that the damned bird tree was
trying to say something. Perhaps it was that incessant tapping on the glass.
I moved around the room as if being watched. The chirruping accelerated
with the wind. But not always. It was maddeningly unpredictable. By daylight
I went out to examine the tree for clues, signs of intent. Nothing.

Each night I listened to it sing again. The sound grew surer now. Warbling.
It was only a matter of time before I began to glance at those limbs as I
passed the window, making sure it remained properly outdoors; for secretly
I had decided, the tree wanted inside. Why else this ceaseless brushing and
fumbling at the window? By night, I heard nothing but a tree full of bird sound.

As I entered my room to work, I prayed for a thaw, made zero progress on
anything requiring concentration. I took up weekending to get away. Yet.
The chirruping was still there, weaving through that woodsy staff when I
returned. The weatherman predicted a long winter: no chance of that lost
soul letting go before April. By that time my deadlines were buried. Deep.

Snowed under. Dead. I was in mourning. But for what? I looked over,
cursed the tree, and begged, “Let the bird go.” It resounded with one intense
chirrup. On my editor’s black list, deadly thoughts climbed into my head.
I cursed him, and it. And felt guilty for talking to myself. In dreams I stole
into the garage and caressed the pruner with near sexual fervor.

I propped branches away with sticks, tied limbs as if putting this thing
in custody. Then the house itself began to creak in sympathy. Starving birds
dropped into my dreams, as weather clutched the tree, bird, and me in tight
infatuation. In was rain that woke me, snow melting away bird in hand,
only a clutch of fresh snowdrops left behind.