Auguries of spring

A single note rises, the prelude to a primeval song carried

on the delicate wing of the wind, a fluttered whisper

of frigid breathe on cold skin, swirling through the chaos of lark trills

and snowfall, stilling for a moment until startled

by a distant thumping, an urging forward, a forewarning

like the pulsing of roots underground or the pounding

of vesnas pacing their palace floors.


Will there be another cake with frosting smooth and slick like a boreal bog

dusted with snowflakes and softened by the strengthening sun?

Will it ooze down the throat or lodge itself there, stealing the last of ragged breaths?


This is the turning, a moment cruel and hopeful when small seeds grow to perish

at the icy hands of fate, when the half-grown are sacrificed at the altars of destiny and folly

and the fortunate, with nostrils flared, inhale the scent of fecund land, the air.