How beautifully the snow has piled
monuments over the little tribes of boxwood.
How slowly ghosts of smoke from the chimney
shadow calligraphy over the trackless spread
while the arbor vitae
flap their lacy sleeves
as a rustle of red
feathers out, slicing the air with mist.
In rows on the gutters
like a collection of daggers
but the dogwood's branches on the south side
hold hostage a few glassy blades
lodged in a failed attempt
and crack the code of winter.
My shadow halts
over scored layers of long months
to prevent this sacred moment
but more joyful than my song of silence
is promise keeping itself
in random clashes of still life
plummeting to the iron window boxes
as I hear March drip away.
Text by Anita Rivera©