It doesn’t matter
whether all the plants
are up
or not

(although I did see
a small handful, a baby’s
handful if you will,
of grass or something
with a single one
of its leaves coming up
under the bush, the white
hibiscus bush
still dormant, looking
dead
on the side
of the porch).

It doesn’t matter
that I have failed this morning
in yet another of
my attempts to be a better adult

(although I did —
once outside
breathe in the sharp
air of these Berkshire
foothills I felt it in
my old, wintry lungs
as a knife might feel,
and dismissed it smiling as
a last foray of snow and
chill since it’s two days
now till the season
I won’t name).

I chose to ignore
the signs, how my car
started without a chug
or stutter at all

(although I did see
a pickup pass me, then
more of them on their way
to a job or something
like work, every one
of the drivers turning slightly
to be sure they saw me,
to acknowledge slightly
that we had no snowbanks
between us to hide me,
to hide them as they traveled
on their way).

Instead I breathed
steady as the maple tree
next to my sturdy steps
as I went down

(although I was
still careful
of ice on those stairs,
still clutched at their rails
despite my trust in the ones
I held internally to, still
winter-fearful
of the possibility
of falling).

In these times, in
the in-between season
I am as always careful,
guarding against falling

(but somewhat
relieved
that it won’t be
long now before
I can breathe more easily,
walk more swiftly
if I want,
noticing more of
the hill itself
than of hazards
and frozen perils
it still holds).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T