Waiting for Winter to End
Outside to
the east,
my garden
slumbers
under a mat
of leaves,
still slick
with the last
ice crystals
of winter.
Not one
crocus
pushes
purple fingers
through a
sleeve of snow,
to fling out
its fist
full of
robin song.
Not one.
And no hardy
squill
splits the
worn brown skin
of an old
oak leaf,
to trumpet
its fresh blues.
Inside to
the west,
the sun
coaxes ladybugs
out of the
crevices,
away from
their sleep.
I listen to
them dancing
tap-tap-tapping
between the
window panes.
I watch them
whirling,
kicking up
their heels,
clicking
their red wings.
They are
keeping time
as Spring
hums her own
intoxicating
tune;
this throb so ancient,
nothing can
resist.
Words and photo are copyright ©Carol Steel.
