• andrew jeter

Promise

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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