Late February
A small path stippled with the print of wind slurries?
runs along a snowy edge,?
scrub-oak nails down tilting stumps of ice.?
?
How old must the year become?
before a cockled bark sheds its wind-blighted hide??
?
The creek is a stretch;?
I tread through a sleet blurred flurry?
zag a rooted track to its frigid bank.?
?
Standing by the water,
crow wings flying form my black overcoat,?
I watch a flotilla of ducks?
pilot a channel through small ice floes.?
?
Then the ducks disappear; we disappear together?
as a hard mist crashes-in.?
I hear the creaking of tree-hung clouds,?
the crunch of frost-bitten shoots,?
a grinding of raw jaw bones on brittle sprigs.?
?
My warm breath pushes through the cold air
the sky returns to tints of sunlight.?
Saplings quicken under blackened limbs?
are tucked between lichenoid openings.?
?
And is that a greening moss,
is that a young crocus reaching?
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2026
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