I am not what you see
in this winter body spiraling down
toward dissolution: snowman
body, frost thatched roof, and icicle flesh
longing for lost summer’s heat.
I still retain the ageless stride,
that long and youthful frame
that mounted mountain crests,
that rode the surging surf,
and slept beneath the questing stars—
though halting now I stump
and soon grow tired.
I’m more than what I seem,
for still there lives in me
Spring, fresh as now for you.