The rivers are liquid again
but the puddles still freeze in the mud on the driveway.
In the morning, I stomp on the air bubbles frozen in them
while I wait for the bus to take me to school,
splashing muddy water on my jean cuffs.
I make the rounds in the yard every day:
the crocuses planted by the foundation are up
but the daffodils by the stone wall are still buried.
The lily of the valley bed is still under snow:
it’s in the shadow of the house,
but each day it melts a little so that last year’s leaves,
bowed down under the weight of winter, are slowly revealed.
This is just the beginning.
But there will be an ending too:
after the rain overfills the brook and the pond,
the weight of the water will break the dam and my heart,
and the pond will rush away down the valley by afternoon,
taking my childhood with it.
Everything will change, everything changes.