I hold off as long as I can,
reveling in every rich snowflake,
sipping as they fall, freeze,
melt to mediocre rain.
I welcome in the cold, cracking
my skin, pores pulled apart
and cells slowed as though
I were a plant, plumbing the dreams
of winter in sleep. I lie
still as ice, curl about branches,
cling with the heavy weight
of hardened water, wish
to bring down bright buds.
This rough weave is the gift winter
makes for me. I am not ungrateful
but my touch is treacherous:
green-gold frost, warble of warmth
that reddens robins' breasts,
that certain slant of light
illuminating no groundhog's shadow.