When the drab drum of winter
dies of the weight of warmth
spring’s dewy fingers;
feet full of knives; icicles
rising and descending
a cold caress on an erect skeleton
of shivering hermits
grating through lauds.
From the hell-mouth of a heater,
God’s breathing burning bush
rings the sweet sound of salvation.
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.