You don’t see the snow

or sense the chill;

you take no notice

of calendar pressures

or time-punched directives to save daylight.

Faith runs like sap,

surging,

pulse pounding

at sight of Sun,

maidenly blush

suffusing veins

and stirring soul.

Every cell needed

to produce the scent of lilac

already quivers on

your assembly lines,

embryo

as yet formless,

conceived in eternal code.

So

you don’t see the snow

or sense the chill;

you just

reach for the stars…