Vernalization and Other Poems
by Courtney Moody
VERNALIZATION
A garden is still a garden
after the roses are deadheaded and left with thorns.
If the wind comes as a bandit and leaves no fruit
while the elm limbs are stripped and quiver in snow.
Or when tulip bulbs get coated in frost-infused earth.
Beneath the surface, this garden thrives.
Quiet as feathers falling from wings
of snowy owls, yet still humming.
Hymns of dreams to pass the time,
until earth shifts and spring is ready to rise.
ON THE EXISTENCE OF ALMONDS
I. Fragrance
You can smell these blossoms for miles, as they draw
pedestrians off their concrete rush and routines.
Almond trees ring for sanctuary with perfume
so honeyed the angels can smell it in Heaven
and recall when the new garden was only seed.
II. Time
The snow melted yesterday, and the almond tree
has taken over the role of white; its flowers
searching for sunlight in January, as though
in a hurry to be reborn, as if they know
their Gardener controls the turning universe.
III. Hope
Maybe this is why Victorians collected
these blossoms for bouquets and called it a symbol:
a sign of Mary birthing the Savior, a sign
of Jeremiah holding onto his vision
like a candle in the evening waiting for dawn.
IV. Promise
A dream is a promise dressed in Technicolor.
It’s seeing naked branches in snow and knowing
the buds will conquer death once again, and almonds
will come as they did from Aaron’s rod, confirming
the seed chosen to grow into the gardener.
V. Watching
The ancient Hebrew tongues called these blossoms “shaqed,”
“to watch,” like a virgin with oil in her lamp
staying up past midnight, fearless of dark circles,
new moon nights illuminated by menorah
flames that won’t burn out until the vision arrives.
VI. Resurrection
Trimmed wood never blooms again, cut from its life source
with bark so dry it cuts your hands until they bleed.
Did the nightmares make you forget? Miracles grow
from propagated stems destined for compost, and
being cut off has prepared us to bloom at dawn.
VII. Renew
Almond flowers are so white you could call them clean.
When van Gogh emerged from the hospital, he saw
tree crowns like clouds and knew it was time for rebirth.
These blossoms fall like swans taking flight, and we walk
the path they pave, inhaling incense of new life.
PERENNIAL PEOPLE
My seed packet says
I’m a perennial.
In spring, sunshine
pigment will freckle
my petals as I dress
in green velveteen.
In summer, the sun
will brand my petals
with a timestamp
and wither my face.
In autumn, wind
will sweep my leaves
off to new worlds
and expose my skin.
In winter, snow
and ice will capture
my insides and laugh
at my faded scent,
but even after the killing,
the seasons don’t know
that they, too, are gardeners
of my soul: I will blossom again.
COURTNEY MOODY
Courtney Moody is a dancer, writer, and poet of faith. She’s a dancer, writer, and poet of faith. Her published and forthcoming publications include Ekstasis Magazine, Kelp Journal's The Wave, and Brain Mill Press' Ab Terra Anthology. In 2022, her poem "Florida Anatomy" was awarded 2nd place for the Florida State Poet's Association Award, and in 2024, she was a contributor for Christianity Today's Advent devotional, A Time for Wonder.
In addition to creating poetry and choreography to seek the divine, she is also the assistant editor for the literary journal Vessels of Light. She can be found on Instagram @courtofwriting and Substack @courtmoody.