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