Another Holy Saturday

Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash

Another Holy Saturday

The red-headed woodpecker ticks up the sycamore.
Gray woods are still, still gray, still woods
even as branches have fallen under weight
of wet spring snow—top-heavy trunks
keep dropping their limbs on the hill. 
                                                                   We want
the same things. We want spring to push out
its promise already. We want winter to give up 
her grip, stop pressing a hard palm of punishment
against what stretches persistent heavenward.
Winds bend. Winds twist. Winds carry, crack,

splinter. The woodpecker and I, we creep
to the other side of the trunk. We hunker in,
no down feathers to comfort, the ragged edge
left from fallen limbs a crucifix promise above us.
We take. We wait for snowmelt and green to rise.