The whispers of frost have not yet left this forest;
they cling to blades of grass, to rugged bark and clambering vines,
as we cling to each other, desperate and unready to welcome spring.

Above us, the sky is still painted in shades of winter, blue and white,
a mirror of the little lake at our feet;
the clouds vanish into the blue, swallowed by the atmosphere,
like the water reclaims the ice.

As you spread out our blankets, one on top of the other,
the melting ice reminds me of a phoenix;
a flame, consuming itself until it is ash, the beauty of rebirth—
and you and I are both red against the snow.

Our words float into the air like ghosts, thick and crystalline,
and I thank God for the cold, for making your promises tangible,
for letting me touch your syllables as you tell me that I am your solace.
But even as the wind carries them away, we see the heralds of the end:
a green shoot pushing through a carpet of wet brown leaves,
the song of a returning sparrow,
the falling of ice.

If it is to be our swan song, we don’t speak of it.
Under the riotous sunset, your fingers find mine;
your eyes have changed from green to turquoise
and we burn together beneath fleece and cotton.

When we catch our breath, the stars have emerged.

Won’t this be better in June, you say, when we don’t need the blankets?

The last of the ice is gone, returned to water once again.
I throw off our covers.

If this is spring,
I am no longer afraid.