The deepness of winter, cold and bright,
with unclad trees and blanket of white
it seems like spring is just a word
that we've not seen, but merely heard.
Those shivering trees so bare and stark
tremble and clatter in the dark;
and during the day they stretch and pray
for spring to hurry on its way.
Them clouds all seem to fly and flee
instead of drifting lazily
as they do with a springtime breeze,
which merely loves to play and tease.
The air is sharp and proud and brittle,
and chills you to your very middle;
it whips and pulls on windy days,
and chills the bones in other ways.
Even the sun is different somehow -
it's cold and distant, and wary now.
It peeks to see the world below,
decides it's not the time to show.
And so we bundle, wrap and cover,
thinking spring is just another
month or two away, thank Christ I’d say,
and onto new green grass we'll trod.
Yes, spring remains a magic word,
like that first red-breast robin bird;
like that first false-spring day so warm
that brings new hope to things forlorn.
My heart and bones and being yearn
to wave goodbye to winter stern;
and happily, joyfully, lovingly greet
Mistress Spring on winged' feet!
ranfuchs
Pro 
lovely poem for a day like today