the green fingers of the first crocuses begin to pierce the cold soil, as if reaching toward the matted hair of last year’s grass. One bright and gusty afternoon in winter’s last days will break the thin cataract of ice left on the surface of the lake. The fist on the branch-end, as April nears, is the spirit of my body, too— longing to shed its confining glove, to feel the sun’s breath singing warmth across my veins.
Copyright 1997 by Brian Dean Powers
Published in 1999 by the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets
Photo by Tommaso Urli at unsplash.com