I won’t wish you happy
an inch past New Year’s
with neither of us sure
how much death we’ll
shovel off the sidewalk
ahead. Instead, I’ll wish
surprise—a cartwheel
away from this single-
file plod between one
dark and the next, dirty
snow piling into drifts.
As in The Lion the Witch
and the Wardrobe, when
someone cried, This is no
thaw. This is spring, I’ll
wish you a spring worth
crying out for. And, once
drifts melt and creeks run,
I’ll wish you to dip your
chin like a fawn and drink.