SPRING
Deep snow
The trees heavy
Peeks of sky through the overhead
Whites, blues and a little green
As I shift back and forth
Rapidly
Like an old radio station
Picking up two signals
She is here
In and out of focus
Just like that old radio
No words
Never any words
The snow on the ground is pock marked
From the white bombs falling from the trees
Muddy circles on a blanket of white
March
A time of transition
I am settling now
Soothed
By a low deep solo piano
At one with the snow and the sky
Almost alone
I feel her behind me
I tilt my head back
Watching the clouds
Quietly I lay back
Sinking
Settling
Into this time of transition