by Kevin T. McEneaney

Tossing knotted log in the woodstove maw,

I breathe small sigh of relief, knowing that

April will soon caress crocus while buds

of willow, apple, cherry, magnolia

will burst to bloom, but I’m now caught between

that dizzy display and cold nights

with ice bedraggling path to the garden,

snow capping the mounded tarp over wood,

the world caught, suspended, in hiatus

like a rusty hinge that can barely budge.

I feel like my feet are in neither world.

That icicle turning to rhythmic drip

records both suspension and slow action,

much like the motion of the moon at night.