The Length of Winter
Up to the hips
of
the grey stone
Buddha the new
April snow has
me
sweeping decks
has me
anxious for the
lone yellow
crocus who,
like the
closed bill of
a swan
rose into the
surface then
weighted with
its own
majesty, relies
on its slender
neck to keep
her regal promise.
If it’s not
fallen
(those two brutal days of cold)
into last years
lap
of cedar mulch,
it
is stuck shut
under all
this solid
sinking
even as it
lifts
itself to the one-
then- the-
other- knee
weight, out
of breath, or
no, not,
but hunched
like a small field mouse
teased out of
cellar
holes and no
way to
nose her way
home. Or, all
those years
ago,
our old golden
retriever who,
near her end
that late-in-coming
spring
took from my
hand a
bit of food and
laid it
tender, yes,
tender
of the ground
near my
boot and looked
up at me, up,
waiting for my palm
on her head instead.
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