By Joseph Hesch
The sun is hanging higher, longer
each day, and I am again craving
the warm light of love I feared
lost over the near-death of our winter.
Encouraged by the shining face she
showed me, I ventured into the field,
its winter-woven cover frayed to vapor,
the dry warp of autumn left behind.
Looking into her hazy brilliance,
I shivered in chill despair
and watched her once again run away
from arms that coveted her light and warmth.
Lowering my eyes, I dropped my gaze
to the ground and saw it land, freezing,
on the first thread of vernal weft–
its hope, as mine, stillborn by false spring.