Under an ice patched cloudy cover
I have been waiting on the leaves
to come from their slumber;
the morning is here after all.
The gray daylight does not vex me,
its snowy sons bring a soft reflection
which gives the gift of winter
a shining wrapping,
but deep inside me and the frost
I hear sunshine tapping.
I glide through the light of melancholy
so quickly I catch the wind and call it joy,
for its sweet taste cannot be mistaken
even under the damaged brown branches
sleeping for the grace of the forecast.
Though I will smile for the comfort of
falling onto the softened ground
yet the basking glow of flowering light
will show the lines in my skin
that I can follow to my eyes
and from there I can lift my head
to stare into the noon time blue egg
from which the heat and
days of wandering youth come forth,
flying away as the river freezes over
but never afraid to perch on the snow
if it must.