echoes Spring into
the window of my wintered heart.
Never quite thawed, never
shaking myself of the death that keeps my hands
I cannot bring to life that which I long for
I resurrect dreams until they are nightmares
and hold tight, until Edgar Allen Poe is not quite
Yet, I cannot spring to life that which I long for
Not quite a year since you were planted in
soil that would bear no fruit.
Yet I refuse a baron field
Death is filled with stubborn seeds of potential
I tend the garden of my grief
until Winter loosens its grip and I reap a good harvest of hope
that will warm my soul.