We tire of dragging gloves over palms,
zipping coats against chilled limbs.
We pull platitudes from winter’s waste,
from under mounds of fading snow
willful still in shadowy pockets,
in culverts and crevices,
fading into muddy memory.
We long for warmth breaths
under blooming branches,
long evenings dallying on back porches,
spring-like sun to melt our hearts.