This old gray winter very soon will die
And things we thought were dead will spring to life.
The sun will wake us from our hibernations
And melt the phantom playthings in our minds.
We will no longer perish if we’re wrong,
No longer must we master bitter winds
By stacking cords of fragmentary trees
And culling books of names as if important.
No longer will the candles ward off darkness,
Our vision will not be through fogs of glass,
Our frosty breath will be as if invisible,
As structures that we’ve built of ice collapse.
We will not need the armor of bird feathers
Or need to fight for one last scrap of fat.
The gridlocks will be broken, the rivers
Will unthicken, the lakes will fill with sound.
The hardness of the ground will so soon soften,
The doors stuck shut will open, the cabin
Fever canning cellar remedies expire,
The essential oils and dried-out flowers end.
This old gray winter very soon will die
And soon our hearts will open…
We will no longer need our minds at all
And we’ll be terrified.
