There are far more compelling ways to measure winter
Than the weather lady's stats on the 11 o'clock news
Or the yardstick stuck in the back yard snow.

There's a little terra-cotta waif
Sits on the stone wall outside the back door.
The last three winters or so,
She could have raised her stone arms above her head
And never felt the snow around her shoulders.

This winter, the thaw exposed the very top of her head
For a day or two around Valentine's Day,
Then a series of squalls took her under the White Sea again.

She did not complain, being terra-cotta.
Anyway, you couldn't see her eyes,
So how would you know?

The icicle that hangs from the ill-conceived downspout
Has been steadily working its way toward the ground
From way back in early December.

When the moon is out and bright,
It finds diamonds in that icicle,
A cold and marvelous ice-queen's finger
Commanding her subjects to kneel before her.

What were its plans when it reached its goal,
Now so near at hand?

But one morning in the middle of March,
I rose late and, looking out the window,
Waiting for the teakettle to come alive,
I noticed that the stalactite had disappeared.
I wrapped my hands around the mug;
Went outside to inspect.

The crystal sword lay in shards, defeated by its own weight.
Morning sun on the rubble, a pile of diamonds, shimmering,
Spattered by the steady drip from its source.
In the middle of the diamonds, a sprig of emerald.

The crocus, nourished by the sword over her head
That dripped her lifeblood all these months,
Had waked before her sisters,
Promising spring so long awaited.

I turned back to the door,
Steam rising from the mug in my hands.
The snow now merely around her toes,
The waif's flirting smirk caught my eye,
As if to say...