Hope Runs Through My Veins

Here's another of the Lenten poems.
Sleep-filled eyes open slowly to dull light
seeping through the east window.
Ears open, too, now to the whistle of a
north wind beneath the corner eaves.
Lips manage morning oats without enthusiasm.
Quiet heart quickens one brief beat
to the beauty of a poem
that names the loveliness of a
predawn run through the cold air of late winter.
Uninspired legs trudge out to put in their own miles and minutes.
Feet pound to an easy rhythm, but
still my mind anticipate more perspiration than inspiration
as lungs pull cold air into blood that pulses
through veins open to the warm hope of spring.