i step outside
into a breeze
too raw for spring
still tinged by the melting snow.
in a day
or two
the last whiteness will be gone
and the air
will blunt with warmth.
i take
in my arms
birch wood.
an easy burn
in the days of lengthened light
and i wonder
toward nights soon to come.
warmer nights
where the smells of
birch, ash, and oak,
will mingle
with sage and sweat.
and i will see you
in the dim light
before the sun.