by Hannah Thomas


In a stolen breath
A moment of stillness
I catch, glinting and jagged in the fleeting sun
Of a blustery March—still frozen
The swoop of the birds
Five or six, in unison, toward the distant pines
There is no wildness here
Only raw new growth
Early buds, ruddy against the snow
I hope that it melts before the end
To smell the fresh rot of the spring
The moss-green stretch of land
And heaving clouds
To walk, and remember how it felt to live

Hannah Thomas is a freelance writer, amateur artist, and a depressive-realist environmentalist. She currently lives in New Hampshire.