Winter’s length is measured
in your eyes.
And from our words
I can discern
that Spring steps hesitantly
around our brittle souls.

I know I have not weathered well.
I have not weathered well.

And is that why you cannot tell
me (the one who shares your cell)
what secret shadows
winter cast on you,
what aches it conjured
in your willow-lovely bones?

The Adirondacks shimmer
white to gray
as restless clouds
muster, murmur, and pass.

Am I vain to think
that your soul throws
itself against that swirling sky,
shares its passing moods,
broods as it broods,
‘til spring’s uncertain hope
blooms in your eyes?