Into the rainy heart of January:
snow's packed purity dwindles down, feeds it,
save the bulldozed piles which harden and will
hunker still - gravel in their maw - come spring's arrival,
as though an ice truck coming round a turn
spilled some load onto the sunny road;
or like the melting pile outside the ice arena.
Into January's rainy heart:
snow's soft sealing dwindles, trickling;
the like that won't be seen again 'til spring
releases after last frost her blooms:
the dancing bracts and blooms of white and pink
and yellow, that on some January nights
can be portended in the sky,
when the winds have swept her clear of clouds.