I have yet to see a crimson cardinal,
though Virginia boasts he’s there waiting
on some blossomed branch whistling.
Perhaps a blood-red bird will soon appear
against this winter-white ash
that floats down graceful from God’s chimney.
Our children have fallen—we all have—
and bear hot bruises from these ice slips.
Undeterred, they surf the slopes this March,
calculating pace and angles for success.
I sent them out today in striped shirts
to crunch and slide near the Holocaust museum.
Just yesterday a man was murdered there. I remember
the news said he did nothing wrong;
but I let the children go anyway,
to walk that path where winter’s
white ash falls from God’s chimney
and I’ve yet to see a cardinal.