A stone-gray winter.
A cold warehouse of the spirit.
Yet the calendar's second flip
comes to this — pink plum blossoms
bitten out against the gray-cold
that sweeten whatever
innocence remains in your aging bones.
Say if the blossoms aren't here
for us just to pass by — what then?
You step before them once more
to stand in a right silence.
Mike Dillon lives in Indianola, Washington, a small town on Puget Sound northwest of Seattle. He is the author of four books of poetry and three books of haiku, and is a previous contributor to Shot Glass Journal.