There are mild spots between winter’s beating of grayness
Where breaths, in ease, are breathed…gloves are placed in pockets or lost on streets of snow
Mixed in that scattered brown batter of orphaned leaves.
The sun appears as a stranger, speaking a forgotten tongue, yet familiar tone
Trying to place a lull on the ceaseless movement of cars slicing through premature melt
Inviting the city to meditate between weather systems.
Only the north wind, that magician, retains a fierce spell, stinging lips of a spring kisser…
Who…hushed…awaits the requite of warmth.