hard water

the iced sleeve
of an iron
stream rolls ever so
slowly
down the small gulf
of woods
behind your house.
it's hard water now.
the trees sing
with brittleness,
sway with broken limbs,
the sky, so low
you can almost touch
it with your gloved
hand, your red nose.
how winter makes us
beg for being young
again, for the warmth
of an april sun,
a new set of bones,
a heart that leaps
towards love.