The cracking and clatter of ice from the shingles
Is my overture—
The woken cardinals,
My chorus—
Both hailing proud to me, their Caesar
And his triumph of Spring.

Snow sublimes and bleeds on the pavement
Like YHWH’s flood—
The earth will clean itself, having given birth,
It licks away the treated salts
That offend my foot and step—
Quelling there, the wrath on Gomorrah
Giving wife back unto Lot,
Or so it can be said.

Unjustifiably, I feel like a badass
With newfound swagger and perspiration
Down my back—
I shed my second skin in the virile breeze.

So, up the noise and whet your words
It’s time the poet took herself back
And without fear makes due on nothing but life
To die early and die right—
We’ll stand naked on a precipice
And scream out the world’s song
While we imagine ourselves there.