This morning there is this:
the slap of water against hull,
a spider's web ballooning outward in the breeze,
bay grasses burning with honey in golden light;
half-formed, memory is fleeting.

Today, I want more from you.
Today, I want to write you back into existence.
Today, I want this bland sky to split open,
peel itself back into summer's blue expanse,
these bare trees to again gather flesh—
this shore, to crawl once more with life.

But this grey dawn blushes pale.
On hollow stems, grasses break & topple.
The web trails—nothing more than a slip of silver
in the wind & the creek sculpts itself into waves of ice.
February limps slowly toward spring.