Blood rediscovers the end of my fingertips,
The tips of my toes.
The bone-ache of deep cold
Is dipped in a shallow, steaming pool
Of promise.
Somewhere, a cardinal sings;
And beyond that,
The sigh of the expressway
Arcs higher into the
Suburban air,
Comes down more gently,
Without icicles shattering
Around it.
The trees point less angrily
At their parent sky,
And people stand taller,
No longer hunching their shoulders
Over their hearts.
Time turns from blade to blossom
In tiny increments,
Like the growing of an eyelash.
And i rejoice in the cloud of breath
That rises from my day,
In gratitude -- and relief --
Toward the day's
Maker.
--Mr. Gobley
