Hard to leave bed, waking to snow
again.
Another season seems improbable when slathered
by this inexhaustible brush of gray
accompanied by the percussion of arthritic tree limbs
in the wind, or viewing yesterday's hope
- a lone bluet on the hillside
hard by my porch that fingered bravely through the slush
at noon, only to wither and curl like a lover
rebuffed by an unkind word at dusk.
Still, there persist hints of a warmer state
unswathed of wool and snot and endless variants
of cabbage. To whit: my daughter, unrestrained,
racing naked, heedless
through the frigid parlour, chortling
at the very notion of clothes, to raise high her hands
to the dawn, a universal letter Y, insistent
as new grass clutching for the sun.
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