B E T W E E N W I N T E R A N D S P R I N G
there are fingers, warmed by the sun
and rough with dirt, caked under fingernails.
The sky fluctuates between brazen blue and
grey, the color of storm churned waves.
There is a time of stillness between the
transition - days where you can't feel
the air on your skin; times when the air
seems to take on the likeness of a cloud;
silent, weightless, intangible.
Our lungs release warmth into the air
that shimmers between ice and sun,
the wind fans our cheeks rosy after
a winter of sunless skies and hollow sounds.
We're caught between winter and spring,
waiting for one to leave, so the other can
rush in the door.