You stand in the eastern window
still bearing winter’s doleful frost
the steely blanket of your hair
speaks to me of distance
and fruitless kneeling.
I could climb an endless stair
up to your threshold, my clothes
snagging on random stars
my knees grazing unmoved planets
and still you would elude me
like a joybeam shimmering
in a frantic streamlet
that a childish hand
would chill in pursuit.
So I wait, clenched in watching
for the first peeping blossoms, wondering
if perhaps they have spread
their maiden lace already
only to be betrayed
by a rude and choking freeze.
But now we stand together
two orphans at discovery’s door
the bonfire of our sorrows
smoldering in a forgotten ditch.
Your fingers twine about my own
like trusting vines that seek
the hidden remedies of growth
their softness weaves a clean dream
a lifting and a holiday
and promises of waterfall joy
as the earth rumbles faintly
in the lap of singing morning
hungering for the healthful seeds
of lovers who well know
the warm importance of thaw.