Where I live, winter feints and slides,
hides behind cloud cover at night,
and slips slyly away
in the morning.
In the garden, green shoots poke through
rucked and puckered earth. They are cupped
and layered against the frost; do they know
what they are doing?
The high today
was twenty degrees north of sunrise.
We grow restless, take the sun’s warmth
as an invitation to a party.
Who doesn’t like the light? I step out
on my porch, stretch like a cat.
In the pulsing blood of early spring,
I’ll miss the quick, sharp glint of winter’s eyes.