intermittent robin blackbird chickadee
despite two feet of soggy-wool-blanket snow
a caress of cloud-breath breeze
whose hand has only
slapped you since September, but
in some mocking penitence.
of shoes whose rubber soles loose
to the growing puddle glum
of pent-up floods. She breathes out, Spring,
exhaling the tears
of Winter’s storms
like a squalling child.
She smells nice as if
she were named after dish soap
but oh the dirt and grime and crusted
salt (but she tastes of bitter days
before the daffodils)
the slip and shiver of shoes
as she thaws, creeps, pause
crawls into the light.