The sun just set on winter,
tomorrow it will rise on spring,
yet my heart is as cold
as deepest December.
Sipping wine that tastes of Europe
and other memories, sweet and bitter,
I remind myself wine will still taste
like wine, even after, even now.
Love dying need not kill everything.
Trees are budding innumerable miracles,
how brave they are, how resilient,
and I know I will green again
in my own rejuvenating season.
Tomorrow, it is spring.

1997