The marsh is drowned in obsidian water,
cattails bent and shot and shredded,
matted grasses the color of cardboard,
the color of not caring,
the last of the snow shadows dying alone,
trees still shrugging, empty handed.
There's not a fleck of green here,
only this roughly woven shroud of death,
ice in the morning, and still a biting wind.
Why would your hands believe in spring?
Not in some faithful promises
but actual relief—your fingers
this morning you should have worn gloves,
your flesh this moment hurting?
Then don't belittle those who doubt.
Thomas, your twin, you yourself,
who also once needed to believe,
don't chide the ones who need to touch,
who need to feel: they ache from cold.
They ache for more than hope,
for what in some moment
maybe you alone can give them:
something they can put their hand in,
which alone might bring them back to life,
no miracle, no brilliant faith, but just
a little bit of softness, warmth, or light.