Spring

The winter had to end.

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

I was in love with the way the bare branches

crossed and criss-crossed

in grey black lines above my head,

an infinite tangle of fear and doubt.

The winter began to fade.

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

I was in love with the waiting,

birds with songs unfinished,

and rosebuds hiding in thorny beds.

The winter held on for a bit.

“Yes,” I said. “Stay.”

I was in love with the cold wind on my face,

the nakedness of the world

a kind companion for my grief.

The winter let go.

“No,” I said. “I’m not ready.

But winter pushed me underneath a tree,

its limbs and leaves

a curious tangle of love and hope and dreams.

“Alright,” I said. “Dress me in green.”