January, December, November,
(when was it that the leaves fell?)
the smell of sun and grass is a memory difficult
to recollect.
We have always known the daily process of wrapping ourselves against the cold.
The whites and grays of winter
have a certain permanence to us now.
That icicle outside my window,
the narrow walkway of the sidewalk,
like old acquaintances if not always loved
have at least become familiar.
Winter changes almost imperceptibly
at first.
Dawn washes the sky
and the birds sing earlier now.
The lengthening hours of light make it seem that somehow
we are given more time in our days.
One week in February the cold relents.
Pavement appears under puddles.
The illusion of permanence is broken:
how shockingly quickly the snow returns to being water.
Though the trees solemnly stand as they did last week,
For the first time I realize
that they are already preparing for budding days.
Yes, spring will come, suddenly, joyfully,
but that is for another month, another time.
This is a time for slow changes,
for grays and whites and sooner dawns.
We grow impatient-
but is this not the way of change for all living things?
