Spring Shows New Growth At Last

Sunday sonnet

Photo by William J Spirdione

A cold flash window pane with flakes of snow.
It’s just a short pause on the season. See.
Snow quickly turns to mist. Seems long ago.
Now, light falls softly on the grey-barked tree.

Red clustered flowers send their pollen down
my stuffed-up nose. Tree sent from way up high.
Branch brittle silver maple whips around.
Shambolic, seemingly. Eyes won’t stay dry.

Tree’s reaching down at what’s just barely seen
down in the root-filled tasty dirt below.
That old, now spring awakened, always been,
sees tiny, simple crocus blooms, and so

a bluebird sits still patiently and waits,
a red-tailed hawk swoops down, then hesitates.

Photo by William J Spirdione