drains through matted pine needles
to muddy a cold, certain earth
before what almost entirely froze
within relearns thaw. Sometimes
it takes a lifetime to unharden,
to cherish the uncertainty, to find
harmony in this uneven rhythm.
Aging bones. Emptying calendar. Let’s
say the returning birds have been
waiting too long to forge a nest from
our chaff: balloon strings and doll
hair, fishing line and balled-up pay stubs,
all the material it takes to replace one
home with another and the collection
of needles that keeps a body running.
Let’s say earth is just a memory awaiting
forgiveness. Maybe gratitude. A clarity
of mind. Let’s say winter is beginning
to recognize the green still tenderly
nourishing its roots. How the water
from our ice further softens opinions
once believed whole-heartedly true
and eases rebuilding. Let’s say all this
neglected debris and the house we make
of it is enough to last another year.