from Ancient Memories
Sometimes, in January, the air
warms up
and the snow melts,
warnings of fog are issued
and my dog is confused by all the smells
from her own backyard.
Usually it only lasts a day or two,
just enough time
to remind us all
of spring and rebirth
and our youth
when winter
seemed to last longer,
of waiting
for First Jacket Day,
for the earth to dry out,
for new green grass
and fuzzy magnolia pods
and the tangerine promise of
snake-skinned Gibraltar azalea buds
opening into summer.
But tonight or tomorrow,
sometime soon,
the temperature
will plummet again,
drag us back into January
when promise is all
that we can cling to,
little people made large
by false layer after layer
–cotton, wool, fleece–
vain protection
on frigid days
encrusted with
ice and blank-white snow.
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