In February, when the days
are beginning to bloom again,
I praise: all light and the ice
hard-scattered riverside and skaters
in homemade clearings scratching
across the cold pandemic time that flows without end.
I praise: the barren pin oak, maple,
pear tree parading down my street, strung
with frozen hearts bursting
berries and bits of pine bough rescued
from Christmas doorways—
stained glass crystals of fractured light, melting.
I praise: the white of falling snow, the blue of sky,
the red of children’s cheeks, the silver of skate blades.
Compassed by the lengthening days, the pull
of praise corrals me into hope against all reasonable
bearings and I navigate by the fullness
of morning moon, setting just before
dawn. A sudden burst of twilit disorientation
awakening something slumbered within.
https://linktr.ee/nancyhuggett