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.