By Mark Katrinak
Winter will finally drift, die.
Snow still upon the trees,
the basement windows blurred
by masks of white. Wind howls
inside the mind. Without a key
it crept inside and stayed.
But you and I—we are not done.
There’s still some meat
left, tender on our bone,
and we’ve not finished eating yet.
The daffodils are coming. Wind’s
banging the window panes.