But wait!
Why ruin a whole page
when all we know for sure
would fit on a scrap?

The air is heavy
with remorse for what they do.
The pond gropes its way to spring;
the words are half-melted.

Wind enters with a roar,
sweeping across the land
until even the oaks
think the storm was their idea.

Wings are for birds
and the very blest.
Most of us shuffle
restless and unsure

for a clear day
and maybe a glimpse
of forever.