by Jessamyn Rains

The sun came out today,
but the snowmen persist
in their ratty old scarves,

sitting stubborn and squat 
in neighborhood yards,
while the lawns take their cue

from a three-degree shift
and, one by one, their sharp 
green blades pierce through.

Stiffly we rise, stiffly 
we strive to love and give,
living by hard letters

written in stone.
We cannot do better
until—drenched by the sun—

our hardness melts and pools
and flows in shining streams
down our crumbling roads.