Thaw

The seed dropped by the bird is a footprint. 
So is the human hair woven into the bird nest. 
Your boot prints in snow are, too, but the sun 

will take the promise of a green future back 
down the mountain. Hope is the gentle heat
that urges the thaw. And sometimes it’s a dam 

that makes us reshape ourselves—backs us up 
and stops our flooding. But aren’t you relieved 
to give up sometimes? The pond acts like 

a quitter in winter, but below the stillness is 
a suburb of frogs, and in the stiff cattails—
a roaring business of blackbirds telling everyone 

the news. I am tired of being heartbroken, tired 
of feeling like I am the only one who tries. I want 
to apprentice myself to the willow stump wrapped 

in ice at the pond’s edge, last year’s nest still 
resting in the fallen branches. Some days I’m not 
sure I miss you. The sun rises on whitened hills.

Snowmelt feeds the waterfalls. The roaring will  
begin soon. I need love to be a safe place again.
I need your mouth to be as warm as a yes.