Late February

Libby Scheier
From:   Second Nature.

The cubes are of ice are of steel.

The feel of my drink in my hand is the feel
of your hand in my hand our hands cold and quiet.

The morning is dead the leaves do not move.
My tongue is a pink bird under the ground
in an early grave of talking.

The spiralling wind of thought is still alive
a small and angry wolf of energy
watching the tomb and pacing.

This is how the winter ends.
No promise of spring no bright hello
the frozen hands palm on palm
hoping for a rush of blood.

Poem 1 | Poem 2 | Poem 3 | Poem 4 | Poem 5 | Poem 6

Libby Scheier's works copyright © to The Estate of the Author.