Yasmin Arastu's Winter Walk
Winter brambles rasp my hands already
white and stretched, the only
surges of color in the gray grid
the bittersweet berries,
fire drops to the starving birds of February,
as if their warmth could expel the smells of snow and smoky wood
that meander up from the houses. The air snaps, the winter walk
a necessary exertion followed by an indulgent spring.
Deprived of friendly elements,
the marvelous land pokes sharp lime shoots undaunted.
My hands are humble in the winter yard.