The calendar lies.
It tells me the months have changed,
the sun"s rolled around, the equinox
has passed, but they"re all lies.
Spring hasn"t come yet—I still hear
celestial screams in the night,
worrying the edges of darkness,
and gusts of wind sneak inside
whenever the door opens.
Or is it just me,
here in darkness, in coldness,
frozen in winter, the ice too thick
to chip through to spring?
