In early March as aging Winter
denies the inevitable thaw
it feels soft and hopeful one day
hard and relentless the next
and I find myself counting back
the preceding months of slate skies
and skeletal trees, the dirty snow
so far gone it’s hard to recall
how bright it was in December
when string lights and holiday hearths
made the icy windows feel festive
but that was an eternity ago
before winter hunkered down
settling its heavy bones into the Earth
content to stay awhile, and now?
March won’t yield fast enough
I’m afraid that this will be the year
spring doesn’t come