by Jessi Uran | 1-minute read
Are we back here again?
The short but gruesome season
Of cold that burns more than skin,
But reaches frozen fingers inward
And incinerates the heart of hope?
Is it impossible to write? To find order,
Rhythm or song in things like you used to?
Does your weary head bow
Beneath the weight of enduring another day
Where you stare death in the face outside every window?
Have the birds left?
Do barren trees moan?
Are your buried garden beds piled with empty pots and rusting shovels?
Do you stare at the lake
With its snow-capped desert
Over fathoms of deep, black ice
If so, as the writer said:
“Courage, dear heart.”
Spring is closer than you think.
So close, in fact,
That to step outside,
Boots on the ground,
Puts you on her very shoulders.
Photo: Sinnissippi Park, Rockford. Jim Killam