I yearn for the eyes of the world to open,

no longer squinting against the wind so cold

that it would seem to strip the skin from my fingers.

To throw off the covers, no longer needed

due to the gentle thawing of the soil,

and the sun edging from behind white skies

to be seen through the fragrant air.

But the frost has cost me dearly; the ache

of its bite yet numbs my bones and paints

my nails a sickly blue, much more ominous

a color than the midday sky.

The feeling returns with the sloth of a

traffic jam on streets of ice.  Nerves crash

and slide as they endeavor to make time.

I heal with the seasons.  Follow the sprouts

as they venture up and out, breathe the

sunlight and smell the grass.

My fingers feel their blades as they pass.