A hesitancy exists within

the forward momentum

from winter to spring –

 

within the stubborn

iron grip of frigid

fingers wrapped

around tender

tendrils of

vernal birth

preventing the

air from warming,

 

from melting the

deceptive layer of

glittering snow masking

last year’s decay,

winter stagnation,

lack of motivation.

 

Its five to ten pounds

of lazy denial are easily hidden

beneath the woven bulk

of an oversized sweater and

within the concealing shadows

of a disorganized mind,

but are shamefully obvious

within the honest light

of seasonal shift.

 

Heaping masses of rotting

leaves and thoughts

gradually reveal themselves

beneath the melting white

in slowly warming sunlight,

 

suffocating delicate sprouts

of chartreuse life itching

for breakthrough below,

 

exposing the patient truth

of a ground covered

in cold wet shit

 

that’s waited in frozen silence

for spring’s thawing rays to

release the stench of

winter’s soggy remains –

 

an odorous mess requiring

laborious attention

before new life

might fully live.

 

 

 

Renee Novosel

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