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.