Winter sunshine deceives us
into thinking that spring has arrived
in January, along with the narcissus

arrowing upward from cold earth,
blooming their fool heads off when
they have no business doing so.

But they do, I remind myself.
This is what gives us hope
in the soil of sorrow where

we’re momentarily planted.
I forget, as I look at the mud
lodged under my nails,

staining the creases of my
palms, that I can wash it
off with warm water

if I remember to do so.
That before long I will
loosen this hard-packed

dirt, allow it to crumble
like old paper into my hands,
then tuck in baby plants

that will grow as they will
with only a bit of water
and love.

As will I if I close my eyes
and tilt my chin toward
the warmth that our

greatest star pours into us
every day even when
we can’t see it.