Pilgrimage, Early March, by Melissa Huff

Only a short walk one she knows well
one taken each year opening the sliding door
she leaves behind her mind’s chatter
steps into the courtyard picking her way
across half-buried slabs of stone
to the path of moss-lined bricks that hugs

the corner of the house and leads
to one particular patch of the garden
with its bare canes of black raspberry
the winter remains of daylilies
a few stray stalks of peonies waving
above a field of dried stubble.

She kneels in the cushion of ivy
a strata of vines laid down over decades.
In the corner of her eye she catches a glimpse
of the tell-tale white of early bloodroot
its flower still bound tightly but this
is not the sign she seeks.

Just in front of her bowed head a mound
of brittle brown leaves left over
from autumn’s drift and caught
in the tangled debris. Her hand knows
to brush a few of them aside
her quick intake of breath a herald

for there they are these acolytes of spring
these clusters of fleshy green sedum buds
huddled as though to give each other strength
each one a bundle of succulent leaves
each year somehow knowing how
to make their way toward the light.