photo by Collyn Ware

 
 Cardinal in Late Winter
  
 The day breaks over a monochrome world
 where there is only the memory
 of color.
  
 I’ve had enough of gray:
 of pasty trees too weak to shoulder the sky;
 of hills, like lumps of coal, that clot the earth;
 of skies that slather the sun for weeks.
  
 Even my dreams plod through the nights
 dragging their shrouds across the land.
 They sober in the company of stones
 as their eyes are sealed and their tongues 
 removed.
  
 Outside, the world writes Its obituary-- 
 line by leaden line--
 and the snow is a hearse through the streets
 of my days.
  
 But in the linden,
 a solitary cardinal.
  
 And suddenly, 
 it’s as if the world remembers its better self,
 as if it can sing in scarlet again.
 Here is red resurrected:
 we sink our teeth into it,
 and sweet juice runs from our lips;
 we breathe it in, and languid moments blossom;
 we look into the eyes of vermillion and rose
 and smile.
  
 The monochrome world presses in,
 but a single cardinal takes the day.