No longer do we trudge, heavy with snow boot steps,
flatten the ground and carve sled tracks and snow angel imprints,
dream of greens freshly picked,
wonder when we'll welcome the rains of April and May.
Yesterday, covered from nose tip to toe tip, my children emerged
from the woods, just beyond our house,
smiling in a way a child does when mud soaks
through their shoes
They told their father and me about tree shelters
and critters and shoes disappearingin "quicksand".
Their breath is quick as they finish each other's sentences and giggles,
and go off together to retrieve the lost shoe.
We remind them to stay outside and where to find the hose.
Later, I'll go down to see where their stories live,
watch how plastic army men zip line through the trees,
admire the fairy house freshly painted.
Together we'll walk lightly,
watch with purpose where our feet find ground.
There is mud, yes, to avoid or not,
but our eyes are searching for something else-
those first bits of purple and white, tulip leaves,
the daffodils declaring the season with yellow heads raised.
Each time our eyes find new life,
we celebrate by being still.
We shed a little more of any harsh winter blues that may linger,
and remind ourselves it's time to be gentle.
We no longer must trudge with heavy steps.