February, and the snow is melting. Mud

under boots.

Squish squosh squish squosh.

The thaw is unearned this year. 

Squish. 

At work we talk about the warming earth around the coffeepot. Clare says 

the armadillos are moving north. 

I could spend lifetimes hummingbird-hearted,

tracing the shape of my fear. 

What if I skid on ice and crash the rental car and what if

the cat gets ahold of a lily and dies and what if 

they all talk about how I’m selfish and immature and

what if the flood is coming, 

and God isn’t.