Today, a brightness has overtaken
the grim wintry gray we suffer here,
in the shadow of the great lakes.
Our walkways are still patched
with the grease of black ice, that
makes walking a test of uprightness.
But, in the fence corner, at the edge
of my small land, I listen to the
trickle of freed water as it slides
off the edge of an old shed roof,
and speaks eloquently of the spring.