Turnings
I
Cold, bone cracking Spring, full of tinkling, groaning ice floes
refuses to be coaxed or cajoled into a smile.
We huddle, each sucking what distant warmth we can from hats and gloves,
collars up, shoulders scrunched together, darting as quickly as ice
allows to the next doorway, car or bus.
My eyes are dulled with longing and my spirit sags in its icy cloak.
I have forgotten my seeds, now dead, their frozen husks cracked and spent.
I have forgotten how to walk without fear, trusting the earth to lift me up.
I have forgotten horizons and see only the bleak icy street before me.
My world is narrow:
this moment’s cold and struggle,
my slow step and grasping hand,
the hunt for safety and release in these dark streets, alone.
II
Blossoms of palest pink drift across the road and fly in flurries.
The sky is blanket soft and gray.
Trees with their first small swellings are tipped with hints of chartreuse and
burgandy.
The lake, a sheet stretched taut on the earth’s surface, waits
for the wind to muss the covers and thrash like a bad night’s
sleepless dreaming or a lover’s frenzy.
Me, I hug my breath to me, walking slowly,
drinking in these promises and
Imagine.
