By Kira Cordova
The ground has held onto heat from the sun;
warmer months have fossilized in the mud.
Root arteries seep water just like blood;
we’ve sacrificed time for nights to brighten.
Snow winks from the mountains–the melt heightens–
talks of highwater, a biblical flood.
My stomach asks the forbidden, I should
not wish, not hope yet. Has summer begun?
I whistle to call the wind, move the clouds
away, to the East, to dilute the sea.
Let the sun yank away this frosty shroud.
The wind sings back, subtle as a banshee.
The clouds are heavy, the winter is proud;
but the Earth will turn, Spring promises me.