Winter Ring

If only it were summer now, I'd fly:
an emerald blur across the lapis sky
a chimney-swift, a swallowtail, a thing
of scales or feathers. Summer on the wing,
a lover's message seeking a reply.

But winter's here, when butterflies must die
and swifts have gone where temperatures are high
and even bumblebees no longer sting,
if only

because they're cold, and can't wake up to cry
alarm against a thief (or passer-by).
The sullen torpors that our winters bring
have trapped my heart inside their icy ring
and summer passions dwindle to a sigh—
"if only."

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