Glory be to spring for melting things,
for hearts finding sunlit spots to open—
In the parking lot of the Fresh Market,
a dragon of old snow expires slowly,
a toppling of stegs and crumpled wings,
dissolving into puddled black pavement,
bright rills slipping toward dark drains.
You who did not believe in God,
but near-believed in dragons,
would have been sixty-nine today,
the numbers of your years yin-yang
like a late-sixties psychedelic poster,
melding light and dark, male and female,
as the dragon of married memory
folds tender wings around me.
Sandra Lindow is the longest-serving Regional VP in the history of the Fellowship of Poets. Her latest collection is The Island of Amazonned Women. She socially distances on a hilltop in Menomonie, Wisconsin.