Waiting for springtime,
men will fill their time.
Gliding on ice,
on thin steel blades,
fastened to feet,
gliding on water
frozen solid,
warmer perhaps than
chilled January bones.

Shivers remind us
there is still
ice and snow,
diminishing perhaps.
In living memory,
spring has always come.

Lately, it seems
to have come sooner.
Things change.
Meanwhile, there is
waiting for springtime.

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