The fingers of snow held me in the pits

and wove threads which caught too tightly

on corners and closet door handles.

Bones spilled out on car seats and released

a tension which had been building steadily

for months.

It pricked the artisans fingers whist designing

woven fabrications, fabric of the winter.

Those who differentiate love from loving,

masters of the stars and godsends to fools

know when gold is not golden, but could be.

And it is the stars who, despite the subzero,

in the rising, forgive a lapse of judgement,

and it is Spring.

New clothing fitted to familiar bodies 

makes them remember that because

he did not see his shadow,

scarves torn and salted soles

are but footprints on old paths,

and a new light finds us home and forward.