Sometimes I Think Spring
Is just a poet’s dream
Sometimes I think Spring
is just a poet’s dream.
I look for the secrets and signs:
a thin blade of grass, a barely-budded tree
a softness in the air, a warmer rain,
a wind less cruel, exuberant hopes
and new flowers everywhere searching for light
in the blazoned meadows and shaded glades
and all those countless tiny lives
buzzing on wings or crawling with calm intent.
Yet, Spring though expected is rarely on time.
The raw winds daily persist and the snow
regardless of our wishes continues to arrive,
an unruly guest overstaying our courteous smiles.
Despite these disappointments and delays
poetic visions persist, anticipation survives.
For the day will come when a purple flower
or perhaps a golden one will thrust her head
through a thick layer of turf or a coverlet of snow
and her bravery and optimism will lift every heart.
