turns us brittle.
This is not the crispness
of the first bite
into an autumn apple
warmed all summer
on its tree.
No, this is the sharpness
of long waiting for warmth
cut off just as
we dug out all our sandals
from the backs of closets
painted our toenails pink
to welcome the sun.
These toes only dream of
warm wool socks today
so brittle
they may snap.
Birds, buds, branches
Join us
and shiver
in the absence of
Spring
which opened us all
like flowers
then fled.
