when winter clings to the bones


The wind moves like spirit
through these Vermont trees, coaxing
the snow to fall a second time.
The evergreens stand a little straighter
with the weight removed. The oaks
and ash sigh,

I sit beside the wood-
stove and watch it all happen through
the glass. I envy these
trees. My own burdens rest more
permanently. My own burdens
are not so easily blown away.

Or are they?

What if I walked into a field blanketed
with snow, mine the only tracks, and
closed my eyes, like the birch,
spread my arms wide, like the maple,
stopped doing whatever it is that I do
long enough to let the spirit
move around me, through me?
Would an unexpected thaw shake
the clinging cold from these creaking bones?
Would the weight from this winter
drift away with the wind, leave me
reaching for spring?

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