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.