The scope of winter things:
the baby in the bed,
frost on the windshield.
A low pervasive hum is Spring
as silent snow falls and gathers unseen.
Just last week the moon hung low in a pale blue sky
still and more silent than night.
I wished for green
instead of last night's dishes in the sink.
There was the sun showing,
my rhythms, like plants, turn to its glowing,
a miracle on the brink.
I used to gather sticks for my survival
now I buy four loaves of fresh rye,
an engine idles nearby,
a street corner's revival.
There's stasis in the daily shuffle.
People, kids, papers, things, dust and dirt
move back and forth like love and hurt,
move back and forth between home and work, it's awful
how a self can be divided.
It takes a child to show that life's alright
look at the shadow of the spider in the flashlight
it's here I am mom and poet, united.