LAST DAYS OF WINTER
The storks in the ice on the window panes
have blown to the riverbanks where a Dalmatian
bounds, towing daylight with its dropped leash.
All the poems of black coats and wool scarves
on an evening bus are transpiring from
their sweetening musk into the prose of bare hands.
At last, the secret trees of April are blooming in the air.
With each breath, I celebrate the words surging in their roots.
With every footstep, I inherit their liberal emblems.
Words and images © Chris Bronsk