Sat., Feb. 28

Chill returns but growth endures,
life is working up from roots,
out of the soil, into the lawn.
My hands are cold, but my bones
aren't feeling the bite
as deep as winter's teeth would gnaw.

March's doorstep is still grey stone,
that turns to rotting ice in northern nooks,
while south-facing beds look up to yawn,
stretching out, heaving stones
and almost churn to sight
with stirring dirt where pecking birds caw.