Nesting

When the cold concedes
And the crocus foists
Its brilliance on a
Broth of Grey,
She cranes her hands
Toward the sun
And plucks tons
Of perfunctory phrases.
Gingerly arranging them
around the room.

I sing into the wall
And it reverberates
Over my cheekbones.

It spackles the gaps,
Spills between brittle
Leaves: a chorus
of cracking frost
And the heaving
smell of birth.

Her lips bloom
And we both soak
In its assurance.