Robins flying low over the snow-lawn
looking for bare spots
under bushes or
the tall trees at the edge of the woods.
Turkeys roost in the tops of
broad-branched Hemlocks—
I don't like that lazy hunters would exploit
these easy targets.
A second snowfall,
when heavy, wet clumps
come down from the White Pines ninety feet
to make me laugh
and wonder if the earth is trying to clean itself.
The drive is blocked with broken pine branches—
thoughts of Christ's Christmas birthing
this week of Easter rising.
The snow-carrying forsythia bending to the ground
making its yellow even more intense,
and the feeling that while this has happened
countless times before,
hopes that the flowers
are not spoiled.
And peach buds are swelled,
each snow-capped,
faintest pink
like prevenient grace.
Lighting the candle by the Holy Mother's Icon,
a silent, feeling-request for light and warmth—
our poor world,
machinated and bleak.
