Invoking the oracle in the muddy
light of my living room,
paper lanterns and a colossal holly bush
sway violently in the wind outside.

The dying breath of winter,
a worried pressure gasping despite itself
in the final throes of its oppressive reign.
An afternoon
shadowed in white, shaking shivers from unsteady
hands on slippery streets, broken
by the mercy of the sun regaining
its grip on this hurtling rock,
standing sturdily between wide puffs of tenebrous steam
far above us,
poised for reprisal.

Mercy, indeed.

Begone, foul beast of Cold, and let us be
merry again.