My husband dreads the winter. Born
himself on the darkest day of the year
and disregarded, he sees nothing
but black ice, danger of pipes
bursting, other people’s cats freezing,
left outside like a name scratched
off the list.
                           But fish still swim
beneath the frozen surface of lakes,
and there are frogs that let their blood
ice over in the mud to thaw again
in the spring, green Lazarus come forth.
And even I, born on the last day of winter,
can see how the snow can cover this all up
to look cleaner than it ever was, for a moment
at least, while it is still falling in our hair,
in our up-turned, hope-filled faces.