Contributor: Catherine G. Wolf

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From my window I see
hot pink blossoms of the crab apple tree
dance wildly with the wind,
like kids at recess on a perfect, spring day.
Rhododendrons offer huge purple flowers,
birthday presents for me.

From my sun splashed window
the stately green leaves of the crab apple tree.
They were supposed to be like the other tree,
with purple leaves,
but I am grateful for variety.
Chartreuse shoots on the rhododendrons
poke their heads up,
promising birthday presents next year.

From my window
fat-bellied squirrels play tag on the crab apple tree,
gorge on crab apples.
(Have they forgotten where they hid their acorns?).
Hugo snips wayward branches of the rhododendrons.
“Not too much!,“ I shout.
Bushes should be bushes.

From my frosty window
the rhododendrons shiver and contract,
like an old woman stooped over in a cold wind.
I read the temperature by their posture.
On the barren, snow covered limbs of the crab apple tree
A tiny black capped chickadee sits.
Reminds me that spring will come again.


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In 1996, when I was stricken with Lou Gehrig’s disease, my ability to speak was taken away by this disease. I found poetry had a special capability to express my innermost feelings. By losing my physical voice, I found my poetic voice.