catapult magazine

February

by Michelle Julianne Gallagher

Sometimes
This time of year
I swear
I am going
To break.

The tree branches outside
Are brittle with ice 
And so am I.

If only there were someone
With hands warm
And gentle enough
To thaw the greenness
At my heart
Without
Snapping  me
From the bough.

If only those same hands
Could plead my case
Before God,
Gesturing wildly
To the Almighty,
Saying, “Lord!  
This is too much.”

Those hands don’t come.

Those hands
Don’t
Come.

You send the sun.

The sun!
With warmth to slowly soften
My cold and crystallized sides!

Now, drops fall quiet
 To the snowy ground saying,
“If only, if only, if only.”

Oh…
But my salvation is surely coming.