Spring Thaw

by Mike Bove

Side streets roil with rough slush,
diminutive whitecaps loll
at the foot of driveways,
mailboxes wear melting crowns
and bow low under sodden heft:
this is the thaw.
The faithful believe
in coming warmth,
won’t lose hope for spring
turned summer
turned fall, for sunny green
Each grinding hour of winter
brings dreams of equinox at the window,
sudden birds at the feeder,
while thoughts coil toward
the hall closet where heavy coats
hang lifeless in the dark,
empty and open.