stone walls breathe
glossed ice these mornings:
the churches and bedside
table depots, the detwined
compression of intermittent
glances scattered, the quiet
moments of stationary
departure through localized
clusters of stretching limbs,
stark and barely alive,
pausing in the coming
season's absence.            
slowly
wondering what it's like;
to unfold spring at your side, to
let lonelinesses bloom at the
tips of branched fingers and
wash away, to be standing
down there, on the fresh sky,
cutting new droplets out of
beach-long cumuli.