Transmission №2: On the First Half-Warm Day of the Year

The caves at Spring Mill are full of run-off melted snow:
it comes roaring between the icicles like a set of chimes

and out between moss-covered rocks. All the green creeks
are up and full, and the brown belly of the White River is

full of swirling corncobs and drowned deer and bursting at
the dead-limbed seams. We’ve never been so far apart, since

you slid your rusted truck out of my snowy drive and left for
college in the windy suburbs of Chicagoland, and yesterday

I went walking through the slush piled around the curling
lines of yellow grass in the cracked-up sidewalk. It was too hot

for my heavy coat, but you could still smell the gravy
of smoke pouring out from all the old wood-stoves in the slums,

and I couldn’t stop singing to myself, “Oh Lord you know
I have no friend like you,” the special way I did last Christmas

that pissed your parents off so much during the prayer, but
oh well. I guess it’s only cold when the wind blows anymore.