There is a crack in winter’s fist.
Hope flows in as daylight,
Flaming a mist of willow yellow,
Whips of osier red,
A promise of green,
The pulse of maple sap,
Water beneath river ice.
Owls call the news,
Stirring turtles in their muddy slumber.
Their ancient dreams whisper,
Not yet, not yet,
But soon.
