The poet writes poems
as still as dishes being dried
in sunlight sneaking between
half-opened blinds.

April has stopped snowing
and groaning grass
glistens beyond the chairs
just placed on the porch.

A religion of faith
in dandelions perseveres
despite dark hands which
pluck the first wild flowers.

These are the hours when
houses explode, release
the spores of summer life
into diminishing snowbanks.

And a crow perched in wind
whistles through trees budding
before gliding into
the lives of nesting robins.