There Are 72 Days Until Spring

The river freezes

bit by bit.

Rolling ripples break

over the thin sheet’s edge,

a reflection of the world trapped below.

All is not solid.

There is life, breath,

bubbles under the ice.

Winter steals color.

Winter takes the sun to bed, early.

Winter winds flood commuting tear ducts;

for them, this is every day.

Winter zaps the drive of so many

to live, mutes them

and hides them

in her heavy, white layers, bitter.

It is easy to forget to breathe,

to forget we are breathing.

Give up is simple

when not even the weather

wants us outside.

I am bitten every time

I stand on the front stoop.

I am sniffles, hot soup,

hand warmers, let’s just stay in.

I am wool socks; feet, always pale with cold.

I am unsure if my friends still love me

or if they are as I am:

freezing,

bit by bit.