This morning, a house finch sings and bounces
Its bare branch outside our window

Though the sky falls, though snow

Covers the ground. Under the snow

Crocuses swell and the Lenten rose
Already waxes. Our penance

Has yet to begin, our last pulling
Back to eke out meager stores

While we tick off our wrongs. Today,
An old saint signs himself

Yours before losing his head.
And so. Do we

Need an excuse? Our patience
Already ended. Outside,

My husband shovels snow from flower beds
Back onto the drive. Today the birds

Begin mating, I once was told,
Their clear sense of things

Tocking them. This
Little finch, not yet come

Into his plumage, sings
Everything could happen. Wily, every poem

Hatches its little lie. Time changes. Just
Between us, how I like it.