POETRY

I Am Promised To Spring

And it is to me

Image by Zoltan Tasi via Unsplash

Cold fire growls in my innards.
My toes, eager to slip out of shoe mouths,
nose at wet moss tufts,
skinned maple roots.

I twist down to their level, and mutter sweet nothings,
One can smell a spring from miles away — 
The hunger in my voice shocks the ears.
My flames of hope rumble through the atmosphere.

I am no lousy gambler, even in my winter-bruised,
green-starved form, I cannot but climb against all odds.
To see the first sunrise of spring flare its feathered beams,
preening upon boughs, over iced rivers.
O, to see the starlings launch theatricals
at the crowds of cowering crows and taunt
their ominous caws betting everything
against my witnessing the thaw of snow.

I am promised to April, and it is to me.
We are to unite even as winter, a squatting tenant,
drags its feet to the exit gate,
tosses back a teasing look at me, reminding
me that still more months are to go.
And wait is all I’ll do.

Thank you for reading. 💙