The rain pours steadily
along the worn-out eaves,
Drumming on the yet-barren soil,
calling forth the green.
Watery sunlight gave way
to chill dark in the night,
But the air tastes of life
and hints of warmth to come.
Along the bushes and under the trees,
It crumbles and washes away,
joining brook and stream,
While buds grow bit by bit
on branches stretching upward
And the birds seek their daily meals
of fallen seeds and sleepy worms.
Spring is slow in April,
The Boreal clings to the cold
The world is barely awake
in the approach of May.
Frosty mornings give way
to coatless afternoons
While children ride bikes in mitts
And the hardy venture forth in sandals.
Forecasts tangle sunshine with snowfall
Rain confuses itself with flakes
Crocuses push stubbornly out of soil
Skunks raise their striped heads
shuffling around garbage cans.
Keeping up is exhausting;
Staying indoors plagues us with guilt.
The push-pull of spring migration
warring with instinct to keep warm.