Children’s laughter

echoes Spring into

the window of my wintered heart.

Never quite thawed, never

shaking myself of the death that keeps my hands

cold.

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

so frightening.

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.