Small breaking

It’s March, but the ice isn’t breaking
yet. Yesterday a long ray of sun
reached in, woke me to memory.

Now evening is
one long silence to savor
like the moment before you tap

the crust of crème brule,
just before its small breaking
opens to something delicious.

But someone leaves in the morning,
or has made a promise
to someone else,

or nothing at all
has been said
about morning.

Walking on thin ice
over Spring puddles,
knowing as one foot lifts off,

even before the next step,
my weight will cause a small melt,
will crack it.