It is January, I know,
but there is warmth in me for now
as if Spring had shaken off low clouds
and washed away these ragged heaps of snow.

It will pass,
this early bloom of light,
and we shall turn to trudging, once again,
the icy paths we walk from car to house.

Like that fugitive queen,
you leave Winter in your wake.
Wield that weather gently, love:
You bring a Spring to us who urge you on.

Angry
nuthatch
in the maple today.
All Confederate gray
except for that russet shirt
and tiny Zorro mask.
“Yank!” He called, insulted,
as I trudged by,
garbage in hand.
Then he was gone,
in the brambles
of a barren
spirea.