Early morning's crusty snow becomes slush by mid-day.
Springs promises melt beneath unmade decisions.
Laughing, loving, wishing the sun won’t make it end.
Moose scat begins to show through worn white carpets.
We hide our eyes from a blinding sun,
And look for buds opening above.
Winter jackets hang uselessly from-
A spruce bows sagging shoulders.
There’s no sure sign when the river will break.
But by April first, only a fool would walk
Upon the Chena’s dark, thinning skin.
Unused blinds become a nightly ritual-
Dimming indecision through clasped eyes.
Rubber galoshes drip upon the doormat,
Mom whispers it’s still my turn,
Later you can make up your weary mind.
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