The Snow Melts Slow

the snow melts slow,
drips cold on limestone walls.
my eyes tear, a sharp glow

as in blistering wind,
when soft cheeks harden to raw pink
and porcelain buds begin

to crack their silent ways
along the inside of icicle earth.
dim winter haze

gives way to young sun,
her soft fingers against cracked dawn.
a morning unspun—

your threadbare sweater
lying across the armchair,
and the fresh clover

in your spring kitchen.
the snow melts slow,
white spring of birchen woods,

tall grasses that rise
beyond the yellow farmhouse
and the soft buzz of green flies

swarming around my ears.
the smell of soil from my fingernails
and your garden glove among the bulbs.