An ending of a story as winter
folds frosted wings and flies;
a story ended another one begun
is what we hope, clutching for
that narrow slender bridge and
the start-again as vital as before,
not running down, an old clock
with failing mechanism.
Final dot, the page runs white
frost cake-icing the first delight
in snow. No looking back, cross
the bridge and scatter birdsfeet
prints of black and tell another
story as spring unfolds feathered
noisy water wings and runs.