Ankle deep in winter
the heart knows only a truth
imagined about
a toadstool
the size of a throne,
near which a single crocus sprouts,
game for breaching weathered ground.

Knee deep in winter,
the fissures on each path,
hide ice the strongest sun won’t reach.
Every bulb is now as inert
as the fronds on last year’s pine,
and as prone to fall.

Waist deep in winter,
eager tendrils pry into cells,
dividing them at whim,
as skin and hair blanch,
and scars boast tales of parts replaced,
and parts removed.
Sq...