Daylight

Just past winter, the wind waits
with its burly gray roar
near the last dingy dollop of snow,

pausing for anything to bring

its broom,

sweep the shoulders of streams,

dust the frozen dew in the field.

I wait also as if I’ve held my breath

for a long blue moment,

confident after the dim

and stiff sleep,
I will stretch into the yellow
face of spring.