This has been the winter of diamonds rather than fluffy drifts of ermine, sparkling lacework etched into glass rather than the potent spears of ice hanging from eaves.
I wake in the morning to the roof’s glistening pavement out my window, our pale lawn a mere ghost of its former self, reminding me of how slick the deck will be.
A sip of hot coffee and the vanishing act begins, fragile as the whisker of moon that still lingers in the brightening sky, temporary as the shiny new plans I make every dark morning.
For as soon as the sun touches, it will be gone.
(Dedicated to that odd leap in February.)