It warmed enough for water

to liquify again and

drip from the eaves,

even if a down vest and boots

still the smart way to tromp about

when taking out the trash

and retrieving the mail.

What are we spinning into

when we dive under the covers

each night only to find dreams taste

more satisfying than our daily fare?

(I’m not asking for an answer—

questions floated and forgotten

one way to leave winter behind,

like crossing the zig zag bridges

found in some Japanese gardens,

a side stepping to throw

demons off our trail.)