As April snow swirls
some of us fall — again

not from high up in the sky
but far down into earth

into unseen places of
unseasonable depression

of spirits and bodies —
wildly overdue for light

waiting for new breaths
of fresher, kinder airs

the ones that soothe us,
reassure our bones.

At moments like this,
it feels there is no

beginning, middle, or
end to our woes —

neighbors hibernate,
walk on brittle ice

as we are buried in
winter hats and coats.

Vermont seasons demand
we embody dispassion

yet we long for one more
warm body beside us

each and every
darkest night

till all is light.

. . . . .

spb | six