Caught

Blinking into the frosted morning
light reaching so brightly through the skeleton fingers of lost and lonely trees,
Blinking in darker artist eyes
Brown irises glowing caramel.
Caught for a moment
frozen in the sightless panes of street lights,
Renewing dormant fire.
Then is gone.
Echoed in crow calls and robin laughter
Over and beside.
And the disapating dreams of clandestine crystals
Hidden in soggy mulch,
Patterned in the muddy memory of small paws
And melding slowing with the black earth
Inaudibly free.

And I don't know what this is, but I want to scream.
No, no, it isn't spring.