My daughter discovers the snow is hard-crusted, so after dinner we head out for a walk. The nearly-full moonlight illuminates the snow. We head behind our house, slip through the fence, and walk through the cemetery. Below us, the town’s lights wink red and white.
March, and I’m biting at the bit — but for what? The clamor of spring peepers. Those late afternoon swims, lazy on our backs, staring up at the sky. The scent of wet dirt on my palms.
Laundry on the line on this Sunday afternoon.
The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.
by Naomi Shihab Nye