If you don’t believe I’m an optimist,
you’ve never seen me
at the tail end of winter
waiting
for the vagrants to drag their weary bones
across the lawn,
leaving trails of dust and grooves from worn-down heels
gaping mouths turned toward the clouds
praying
for rain
while the birds drop hulls
from angry beaks
into the wasted grass
and scream in indignation
at the bitter cross-wind blowing
Behind the glass I warm my hands
close my eyes and disconnect
the brain that tells me
this could be the last
cold night
This could be the last season
of waiting
to be warm.