As the third rock from our Sun hurtles through space, tilting once again on its axis to soak up the rapidly approaching warmth, my mind spins too.
The latest trip around the Sun, full of so many pages like a book.
And dispersed through my book, like chapter plates, the birds I love and respect, who also await the warmth from under a dusting of snow:
The last of the food supply with a skin of ice
gives way to moss and the antennae it throws out:
A rare blue in a flower unfurls and reaches out with fairy toes dipped in colored sugars:
A new generation will be born in a cup of softness from fur that I lovingly collected for months:
When the dogwood throws itself open in a thousand tiny glories,
fierceness gets a new face:
When it comes, the ice will fracture and our hearts and minds can expand once again, to ride the next trip around the Sun.
When it comes, I can sing again.
