Our back yard to the bus, late:
A lucky break for all the children
Who tend by nature to fall behind.
Still he battled hard against such
Inconvenient late-season weather,
High as his twelve-year knees, snow
Like filling crusted by mottled ice
Pierced through to a long slushy
Trip all the way to earth's surface
Hidden 'til spring, its tender young
Scalp scented with dirt and light.
February snow just like my heart:
Hardened, beleaguered, streaked
By mud and salt, less ugly than just
Plain. And yet: you might stomp
Through to me, you know. I would
Allow you this sweet slow slide
Too soft to quicken your pulse
Until you stop, surprised by what
You've uncovered: soil richly dark
Hosting all manner of plants fairly
Straining towards life, keeping time
With the beat of my tone-deaf heart.