Sophie McMillan is an American expat currently living in Glasgow, Scotland with her husband and 15-month old son. A published poet, she divides her time between writing, chasing down peer reviewers for her academic journal day job, or out in the field undertaking conflict archaeology.
The Trees Out My Kitchen Window
Through my grimy kitchen window,
I see the signs of a new spring in the back garden below.
Pairs of magpies dart and dive,
pecking at the trash left behind by other, more careless tenants.
But it is the budding trees, the ones with the white flowers,
that my gaze always wonders back to.
I do not know what the name of the tree is,
neither in Latin or laymen.
This is our second and last spring in the new Gorbals;
our first flat together will soon be abandoned for our first house together.
In this flat, we experienced old death and new life;
it has seen our family simultaneously grow and shrink and grow again.
I will not miss this flat, but I do not leave this flat with a heavy heart
And I know that, come spring, I will always think of those flowering white trees when standing at my kitchen window.
With My Own Grief