Warm Spell

February has suddenly liquified,
a sponge wrung out into the dirty dish water of days,
pallid and lacking all signs of any season.

We stand in a stupor
wondering if winter has forgotten how to howl this year
or if we might trust our hibernation instincts
and shuffle heavily back into our dens
out of the unexpected warmth
and open streams.

Turn the wrench tighter on spring
like a ground hog's blinking eyes
discerning the earth
while clearly still a frozen mystery.

We can all give up pretending to know anything.

Instead, let us pray for the tiny chirping mouths of flowers
who sing their songs of praise and thanksgiving
out of turn and with no sense that the ashes from which we all come
have not a single ember to claim.