To Love What Is Sleet falling outside my window, pond still frozen though my heart aches for thaw. Bud-scaled tips of trees, muck and mud of greening yet to be. Winter dust that dances in the morning light, falls on books and brushes, rises on our arising. The call for help, the interruption and work of it, pulled away from what I long to do into what already is. The anxious cry, the pothole at the corner, the leaking tap, the red-winged blackbird trilling in the birch. Fog dispersing over the canal, virus blooming yet again. Me with so much yearning for you, delayed, for spring, delayed, for all the futures and the pasts gone sideways. And yet. We’re called to this: To love what is. And so. I kiss your tousled head, stroke your flannel robe, rub your stubbled cheek, pour you coffee and nudge us into the day.