There is still old snow
beneath the trees,
and rimes of ice
along the fenceposts in the morning.
The air still cracks your lips
and laughs
with the unquiet rasp
of wind-grabbed branches.
The moon is a cold shadow.
The calendar feels dead.
But winter’s heart is breaking.
Day-by-day,
the south-bourne sun sheds
yet more skin,
peeling off the clinging film
of dusk and dawn
to leave some seconds more of light.
At the bottom of the yard
the water crawls the creek bed,
halting and unsteady
like a car-wrecked body
learning how to step.
And there beneath the wind,
wrapped around
the gasping of the maples,
comes the smell of ravens.
