I yearn for the eyes of the world to open,
no longer squinting against the wind so cold
that it would seem to strip the skin from my fingers.
To throw off the covers, no longer needed
due to the gentle thawing of the soil,
and the sun edging from behind white skies
to be seen through the fragrant air.
But the frost has cost me dearly; the ache
of its bite yet numbs my bones and paints
my nails a sickly blue, much more ominous
a color than the midday sky.
The feeling returns with the sloth of a
traffic jam on streets of ice. Nerves crash
and slide as they endeavor to make time.
I heal with the seasons. Follow the sprouts
as they venture up and out, breathe the
sunlight and smell the grass.
My fingers feel their blades as they pass.