Gutter Ice

I walked out, no scarf. The air

hit my face, a surprise.

A warmth I hadn't felt there

for months. A soft disguise

for winter's grip. The ground smelled deep,

of earth waking up slow.

But down the gutter, fast asleep,

a patch of ice refused to go.

Grey and stubborn, melting slow,

a small, hard, frozen tear.

The sun felt good, I have to know,

but that small ice was clear.

A promise kept, however small.

That winter wasn't done.

Not quite. Not for us all.