For weeks now
we have watched the sad puddle
of mercury at the bottom of its tube,
never rising,
and we have covered our heads
against the cold.

The snapping of ice-heavy branches
woke us at night. The slick roads
taught me how to pray.
His father mistook a step
between plow and hearth,
and broke a limb of his own.

Today, just after the ides
of February, just after
the chocolate has all been eaten,
still a month shy of solstice,

the precious line of mercury climbed.

River ice creaked, and
the road was cloaked in fog.
We left our mittens
hats scarves jackets
long underwear
doubled socks
and ear muffs
at home.

The fog rose in sheets
from the snowbanks, bathed us
in warm anonymity, thick with the promise
and the rich smell of growth.

Sublime.