The sun returns
In an earnestness
We have not seen in months.
Not yet does the earth send warmth
Enough to climb through the soles of our feet–
Not yet warmth enough to creep onward up our legs,
Stretching, reaching toward our souls,
Where I carry the wish I have of you
One day, perhaps—
Perhaps, I may find the courage to grasp
In an aching, aging hand the bone to break
And set loose the wish I have of you.