The finch and the frost
argue sharply
through my senses
over what season it is
I can count stars
as they fade, one by
one, in the growing glow
The finch’s appeal is full and crisp
So too the air
my breath lingers
not ready to exit
It is the spring, one sings
It is winter, insists the other
Clutching at my warmth
pinching my flesh between heavy fingers
brushing my cheeks with rose
Trying to communicate to my very bones
marrow, that the finch is out of place
that it’s jumped its cue
The high chortle, the 3 note pulse
of early morning song
pierces deeper
to mind and memory
Of a life lived amidst the evergreens
where the chortle stands amid my perception
of the world
I’m not deceived
the long reach of Hades
as loosened
weakened
dying
tis the finch I hear
singing in joy
for spring, as sprung its hiding place
and stands ready
to lead us to the feast of summertide
