Waters of Winter
I think of spring fronds, green and resilient and so
snow secures its heavy pack with two or
three storms in March. In second grade, Ms. Lizak
said March: in like a lion
out like a lamb.
There were paper kites
tacked to the classroom wall next
to the times-tables race to the top. Numbers
etched in my brain next to
construction paper umbrellas next to
rain drops that looked like tears from the sky
for renewal of a season. Snowfall turning to
drip drops of wet soil for May flowers:
drip drip drop little April showers on repeat
while my boots crunch through the unshoveled
walks and drives, an ocean tide of winter storing
up the waters that will run down the mountain first
when spring melts quickly, then summer––melodic brooks
and the rivers that carve canyons and cleanse
hands, face, neck.
Outside my window, a neighbor shovels
wet, new snow.