How Spring Comes

I remember how spring comes
after the long, cold,
lonesome winter;
the earth holds her breath,
as though waiting
for a moment’s inattention
in our somber winter vigil
to wrap her shoulders
in a misty shawl of green —
a dab of perfume on her wrists —
and strolls suddenly, sunlit,
out of a fading winter night.
just at the instant it seems
spring will never arrive,
it comes,
all buds and birdsong and
the rich black scent of soil,
she lounges across the valleys
as though she’d never even gone.
even in the dregs of winter,
when hope creeps up in me,
I find myself gazing down the lane,
across my lonely, frost-bare fields,
half-convinced I hear
the distant ring of her voice.
yet, deep down, I know
she comes
whether I wait for her or not.

image credit

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Allison Siburg

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