Winter sun glints off cold metal,
Colors bright, so intense
They might cut you if you touched them.
Wind whistles through the little hole
Where the window doesn’t fit quite right.
The trees stand huddled in little cliques,
But bare they don’t quite touch;
Lonely as snow-capped mountains,
Close but oh-so-far from budding leaves’ embrace.
Early darkness sets on souls
Who wonder if spring will ever come again.

A long-abandoned playground
Rejoices in the laughter of children
Who scramble and tumble in only jackets.
But tomorrow, they say it will snow.
The calendar marches on like clockwork,
Yet ice still stifles puddles
And the empty spaces where flora flourished
Go glaringly unfilled. Where are they,
The first green sprouts of March?
The birds who fled for kinder climes?
Cold souls sip hot soup and wrap themselves
In platitudes. If Winter comes, they say.

A bird shell crunches underfoot,
Lying on paper-thin ice. Twigs and dried leaves
Float by in beaks and paws
To pad the homes for coming additions.
Rain has blended sharp edges into watercolors,
And the air smells ripe with new life—
Even if the lasting cold burns lungs.
Runners wear lycra too early in the morning;
Soggy hiking trails boast footprints.
Some spirit has infected the trudging souls
Who shiver in their beds:
Winter blankets were stashed away
Before the cold was locked up tight,
But optimistic expectations last:
Spring is sure to come again.