When I was young, a blizzard snowed
us in for a week. My house was an iced
castle atop an impassable hill.
My youngest child has only seen
snow twice, and none this winter.
It’s February, and I don’t even need
a sweatshirt when I hike.
Yesterday, where river meets marsh,
five swans gleamed like snow.
They stretched their wings
and preened their ruffled backs.
The air smelled like salt and summer.
Budding trees throbbed birdsong.
A chickadee wore his jaunty
cap and the goldfinch flaunted
her yellow breast.
At the beginning of the month,
the first daffodil unfolded
her sunshined face.
My dad posted a picture and said
I love this way of doing winter.
Tonight, the sunset leaps across the sky
like fire, the sun a dying ember.
The pavement emanates warmth
and my son thumps a basketball
until it’s dark. The cherry blossoms
swirl like ash.
