This cruel winter keeps inflicting its consequences.
Buds have been burned and stunted,
forsaking both first leaves and blossoms.
Even the early daffodils weighted down
and singed by the last frosts and ices
have not resurrected to bob in trumpeting dances with the breeze.
Yesterday in short sleeves with warming sunshine on my arms,
I sat not yet trusting of how unpredictable nature
has thrown my life out of sync.
I arise at 6. She sometimes past 9.
I asleep by 11. She, absent from our bed each night.
She sick with a nagging cold. Then me sick with flu.
Now we’re both sick.
I so uncertain of this spring
that I do not believe the forsythia,
the crocus, the robin.
And under this morning’s dismal sky
I worry for the words we share.
Their meaning drizzled on by the frozen deeds
and left vacant of resolve by absence,
illness,
isolation
and this cruel
cruel winter.