her quiet respiration
rising and falling
through the heavy snowbanks
as they gurgle in the sunshine.
I hear the slow, steady intake
of mid-February air
stirring the awakening crocuses.
I hear the sigh
of the oak tree’s terminal buds,
warm wind stretching them out
beneath the turquoise sky.
I hear my own lungs
inhaling and exhaling
with renewed hope,
ready for the coming
of green and the shedding
of all that is grayed
with winter's feigned death.
Joyce Rupp
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