Insects replace the snow
of late December
and I give myself
to no cause but living.

The blossoms are all wrong.
Broken phenology
set them bursting in winter
and I can only say it reminds me
of another story
where the heroine takes shelter
in a machine that drops birds from the sky -

but what does that tell you?
My best instincts
could send us migrating
to a dead sea.

I can only give myself
completely
to whatever actions
relieve the tightness in my chest.