Promise

Morning sun becomes more than light. Rays of warmth reach sleep soaked limbs. Land mist shimmers.
Daffodils begin their yellow crop, even a crocus has been seen.
Spring runs like a pup through the legs of Old Winter: Old Winter laughs at the circular twist.
It has been the purpose of this dark season all along: to nurture life, bring forth spring.

Late evening, along the line where mist becomes fog, we are driving. The world seems splashed with pale watery paint.
Warmth, we speak of it: we feel it still, this gold promise.
Mist fans out, plumes and plumes of otherworldliness.

Six thousand three hundred and thirty miles from here my brother and his wife settle in to their new apartment. They have other news to share.
A picture of an ultrasound, of forming bones, light as butterfly limbs.
Tiny thing, welcome. It seems to us we feel the warm beat of you and the distance is nothing at all.