Snowdrops

                    A gray ordeal,
these winters wrapped in scarves up to our eyes, 
as we lean tense against the winds that squeal
            from north to south, in vagrant light that dies
                    before we make it home.

                    Our ways freeze hard
like muddy paths turned into rutted stone. 
The haze of woodsmoke hangs above the yard, 
            wafting vague shapes, our memories grown        
                    opaque while set on ice.

                   World without end, 
this life of frost-jammed cars, and red-raw hands,
and brittled joints that must be begged to bend.
            A cold infinity expands 
                    across our calendars. 

                   But as we walk                        
shoved deep in coats, ensconced in our routines, 
late winter offers wildflowers that might shock
            us with their bright unbidden greens 
                    thrusting through leaves and dirt.
                     
                   White blossoms drift
like coracles on this patch of sage-fringed sea, 
slight, petaled buoyancies that bob and lift 
            on air. The possibility  
                    of change, of loosening

                      begins to grow                    
in us. We bristle, frosted still, but lit
by earlier dawns, and stretching out as though
            we too have pushed past soil and grit
                    to reach the lengthening light.