After a fifty degree day in Michigan February,
(The groundhog said it must be spring.)
it dips back into the familiar freezing,
and all the leaves uncovered from snow
start the morning sparkling.
After a fifty degree day in Michigan February,
(The groundhog said it must be spring.)
it dips back into the familiar freezing,
and all the leaves uncovered from snow
start the morning sparkling.
Mom says it
sounded like spring
this morning
with all the birds
twittering.
There’s a burst of wind,
maybe a laughter of it,
and the light tickle of snow
we’ve watched these months,
expecting white, finally
becomes a full window snow:
every bit from the ground, the eaves,
the unpruned bush with a few dry leaves
lifted at once.
A biting tunnel of winter wind
eating snow out of a bowl.
Only the old battery radio
and gas stove work.
Your phone is a flashlight
until it’s gone.