The second Winter was the cruelest,

The way it buried our hopes.

Even the ground had opened its mouth,

Like a baby bird, waiting to be fed.

I swear the grass was starting to green,

And I’m sure I heard a frog that night–

We sat outside and said we smelled spring.

We were wrong, as we always are

When we try to divine the future.

The only animal who tries to divine the future—

The only one who knows disappointment

In buried grass, bare branches, and silence.