With memories of snow we ease ourselves from current fact,

back into the embrace of much-sweeter January, who believed in us;

who brushed hair from chapped lips and dangled new year's baubles

in the penumbras of our bloodshot eyes, as if to prove

our freebird lives we stumbled through, though deadly,

had not snuffed us yet.

We might have made snow-angels;

the earth formed to our shapes, unlike

the unmaleable climateless sidewalks

and overstructured paths we'll walk

passionless in April, who reminds us

curtly that the tulips aren't for sniffing, silly.

--if we had a choice: our spines have been replaced

with hinged robotic arms; so bow

respectful to the crocuses, although they are compelled to their sharp

schedules-- if only to display

our perfect function-- no longer free to choose our gestures

to match the clouds, (what were they?)

but soldered to our own ideal decisions,

brightly-wrapped; our lives, prepackaged yellow Peeps --

guaranteed unbreakable.