At the charcoal black street,
With ice and slush pushed all around it,
Nothing moves and nothing sounds.
Except for a girl with a nose like a cherry
And an ache in her back
From the bag that’s weighing her down.
She kicks the leftover brown and white snow
From weeks past and the hard bits of it go flying
The sound of her sloshing footsteps echo into the empty, gray sky.
Complete emptiness surrounds her,
Everything dead or frozen
From the bitter, unforgiving winter.
As her home’s faded red shutters come into view
A chirp is heard from above her head.
The girl looks up to see a blue bird high in the branches
Of what was once a lively oak tree, and there,
Though hard to find, is a soft pink glow
From the first bud of spring.