Spring 1998 • Vol. XX No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1998 |

Digging in Winter

White branches bend toward me, winter, they sing, don't they? Death comes even after soft weather,hides its nest of knives and cords. Isn't that so? my dream-child asks. She doesn't know the cold of these questions pummeling our hours. Purposeful, pink lips cracked from climbing heights, she is not what I was, an unopened letter in the snow trailing spring's return. The lost words sing, don't they? And even after hard weather, death comesto write me a letter imprinted with flowers. Summer, they sing. And your mother hatched you, isn't that true? Foxgloves, harebells, lupines in that garden. My child shoulders a burden of questions I ease with words—burrowed like white-tailed mice digging in winter.

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