Thaw

by Hannah Christmas

THAW

The gate was open.

No robin red-breast needed to

        bring me a key today.

It was open, and still I stepped

        softly over the threshold,

feeling every crunch of gravel

        under my shoes.

The garden is still sleeping.

Spring has had no time to wake

        what lies dormant underground.

Patiently, patiently,

waiting, waiting.

It’s not my job to sound the alarm,

so I keep my heels off the path

and inspect the rich earth under

        damp, dead leaves.

Damp from snow that had kept this

frozen in time.

And now, look how it helps a new season

begin.

Is there green? Is winter over?

Who is most anxious to see the sun?

Let the thaw whisper over the garden

and breathe life in.

HANNAH CHRISTMAS

Hannah Christmas is a Kansas City native, living on the Missouri side of the state line, where she is a wife and mother of three. When she’s not writing, she’s probably reading, though more likely it’s a book with pictures and she is reading to a small audience. But if it’s a moment of quiet, there is a much thicker book in her hands, or knitting needles, and a notebook in arm’s reach. Her writing often happens in bursts between moments of daily life. Hopefully, those moments will add up to a book someday.