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.
