For the first time the day felt like it was not
entirely winter, but beginning the soft caving in
that begins something else. A V of geese, low and perfect
over the roof are lit differently today; the slant of sun
lighting the precision of their wings
softens suddenly and without fanfare.
I have an unexpected day to myself, a chair
near the woodstove, a cleared table to work at.
I'm still being realistic. The frost still blurs to opaque
the mudroom windows. The sparrows still crowd
the branches of trees like dark commas. We are still
at winter's heart.
But the shift has happened, a collection of light
between trees one minute sooner, then another;
the shell has cracked and
there's no putting it back
together.
