STRAWBERRIES IN SNOW
By Anya Silver
Belief comes too easily to the ill.
Miracles fall from their lips like gems,
are worn like secret amulets. A woman,
I’m told, brushed her steps of snow
and found the very thing she craved
to eat, strawberries fresh as summer,
dimpled sweet and red beneath the rime.
Pink climbed back to her ailing cheeks,
the way new blood makes the body sing.
And yet, no one talks of her sister,
who also searched, found nothing there.
She swept and swept until she fell.
I’ve been so good, she wept, the wind
remorseless over earth that wouldn’t bear.
Anya Silver’s book of poetry, The Ninety-Third Name of God, was published by LSU press. She teaches at Mercer University and lives in Macon, Georgia with her husband and son.
Editor’s Note: Last week I featured Anya Silver’s “French Toast” on this series. It is one of the most successful love poems I have ever read, and it was the poem that needed to be shared on that particular Saturday. But I accidentally stumbled upon “French Toast” after securing today’s poem, and so I want to treat you to another entry by this very talented poet.
Today’s poem contemplates faith, that intersection between humanity and the unknown with which so many of us struggle. It asks the logical questions that one asks when facing illness and death with little more than hope to go on.
Want to see more by and about Anya Silver?
Buy The Ninety-Third Name of God on Amazon
Anya Silver Featured as Image Journal’s Artist of the Month: October 2010