Winter's bitter grasp has receded now,
though lines of faded light still haunt
the distant hills at evening's close,
and the trees remain gray configurations of bones
in the deepening green of waking backyards.
There's still traces of earth and cold lingering in these walls,
territories of candied frost along windowsills and steps,
and though the birds have grown bolder in their stirrings,
we remember the silent cast of snow on unlit streets,
and the rattle of plows traversing the neighborhood.
Yesterday, the cat brought me a rabbit,
young and soft as a fallen feather,
a single claw piercing its heart, staining the
fresh white fur with the deepest cloak of red.
At day's, end, she had felled another
and left it on the porch threshold where we ate,
and it seemed spring's magnetic orbits
of birth and death were there with us,
like a feastbound ghost floating in the margins.
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