Winter, like illness, is a glutton

Post polar vortex
the world breathes out
a collective sigh of relief
and slowly begins to thaw.

The breeze spreads gossip
under the breath of spring
and the clouds are more cotton ball
than moth-eaten wool blanket, now.

Still encased in ice, the trees
stretch their glassy fingers towards
the returning vitality;

they cannot touch what they reach for

(I know the feeling).

Along the sloping bank,
the grass is still frozen in supplication
to the howling winds of last night’s storm.
The ice pins it down, maliciously gleaming.

Beneath it is lush, green, unmoving.

Spring is beating its fists against

the heavy doors of the banquet hall,
bellowing for its place at the dinner table.
Winter leaves teeth prints in every plum

and peach, a bite of each sweet flesh.

He eats his fill, takes his time.

Spring can have a seat at the table

when he is ready to leave.