When the handprint of winter
still lingers in the air
when words you speak turn light
spiraling like moths
when light falls around us
like a warm body, breathing
when stray dogs emerge from ditches and empty lots
confused, stringy and eager
when you raise your hand like a gift
or question
when your mother is out in the hills
gathering sage
when spring approaches
timidly, like a wild deer
when I lift my head out from dying snow
surprised, and press my hand against the windowpane
when windows fly open, finally, everywhere
and the wind blows warm
through our simple hearts
Colleen Keefe, 1992