When Creeks Run Again

Bridget Kingston

It is utterly unironic that snow damped the April

ground. You died, even as hope licked our skin

and sunlight offered its promise of a ripe tomorrow.

I knew this day was coming. I knew

it when I emerged from my pillowy down to find

other sunlight, shepherding tufts of snow

down to mock the budding trees.

There’s a certain weight as the air works its way up

from frozen to thawed. April is the pregnant

pause before an exhale. Which is why it’s not shocking,

it’s not shocking at all

that I woke up to find your hollow

body abandoned

in my chest. I knew the risk

of the cold coming into re-

arrange the light, but with birth

comes death. I’ll bury you when

ice thaws, when

snow softens, when

creeks run again with crystal spring water.