A Waking

(a poem about a new sobriety, by prariedawg)
 

Winter is over; spring has not yet come.
Summoning your last reserves of good will,
Breathe on your numb fingers, hoot at the chill.

Thick clouds may crowd low, shrouding the sky,
While under cold mud and corroded snow,
Bulbs, tender as a heart's sigh, start to grow.