In the Awaiting

the ice drips, slowly
melting; hale, thick branches
with their delicate tracery of twigs
are shedding their casings 
of crystal drop by drop
until stark they stand 
and black against the cloudy sky. 
there is little evidence as yet
that life may be newly 
stirring; crocus and squill 
are only just waking 
from their winter dreams 
for now is not yet
the season for buds or blooms.
the air is still cold and thick
with the songs of geese 
and the sound of wings is like 
a wind from God sweeping 
over the face 
of the wet, dark earth.

---

03/11/23