Friday, March 4, 2016


Friday, March 04, 2016

Snow comes over night
A burglar stealing warmth
Promised by an early spring
I, caught in a haze of dreams,
Out of which I cannot escape,
Feeling each new promised bud
Rising up inside of me,
Each waiting to burst,
With the first ache of green,
The hint of leaves,
And later fruit,
Around which my mouth waters,
But I wake to a frigid landscape
While melting inside of me and out,
The promise not dead
But suspended
Making the ache so much more acute

For waiting.