Snow covers the ground
like a worn tarp — holes
where animals trampled
the night — crinkled, uneven.
I cannot fold this winter,
pack it away in a hope
chest to make room
for daffodils and crocuses.
Baseball beckons and fields want
unfrozen to open to seeds,
to do the work of life,
to break the fast of longing.
I am too old to rush these things,
too content, like a dog watching
from the window — waiting for
whatever dark ball, squirrel or bird
flies through the trees, against
the pale cover of the day —
waiting for those moments
I cannot control to pass, to guide
me into a future, a present
where the sun warms my face
and I can again bare my skin
to the wind.
