The thaw begins with a drip,
builds to a roar, subsides to sunlight
prisms playing over every surface
illuminating still-wet velvet wings
maroon and yellow, neon blue
pseudo-bark underneath.
In the clear-cut, pink fireweed
pierces a sky alive with souls
reveling in their last year on earth
sampling nectar with newly curled
tongues while summer degrades
to fall, burrowing in the cool
damp cord of fir put up for winter
awakening in spring, tasting summer
before the reprieve, too soon over
time come to fold
battered wings, to slip free
of this mourning cloak and rise.