Wolverine Stew: Hibernation Garden

To remind myself of spring

Out of the world feeling like

It is made of a single room

The lights inside and out

Blurred in the growing fog

And the cold reaching out

Hollow roots burrowing into me

There is

A bouquet of wilted amaryllis

Petals I give to myself while

A new bloom emerges from the

Bulb wrapped in wax wrapped in

Pollen coating the windowsill

And with enough homemade rain

Spread across the weeks

Leaves will keep sprouting

Wrapping round the ceramic faces

That cradle their earth

And reaching for glass-guarded sunlight

That always comes back


Hello! My name is Clyde Granzeier, and I am a senior at the University of Michigan majoring in Creative Writing and Literature and minoring in History. This is Wolverine Stew, a weekly poem blog about the strange, stressful, and fun parts of life here in Ann Arbor. Each poem will cover something different, ranging from D&D with friends to the jack-o-lanterns across campus to the trumpet-shaped and puffball mushrooms that pop up in the Arb after it rains. This will basically be a stew of experiences (pun absolutely intended) from my time at U of M, and I hope you enjoy! P.S. No wolverines were harmed in the making of this stew : )

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