For a day or two, it gives off
the sumptuous scent of that,
smelling more wonderfully of spring
than even violets do.
I breathe it in and smile,
crocuses pop up in miniature bravado,
and then collapse under
the astonishment of late snow.
One day, while the ground is still spongy,
the faintest possible haze of green appears
in the last year's graces.
Trees are discernibly in bud.
I savor every little sign of spring -
notice everything! My very soul insists
there are promises in frosty mornings,
in clouds thinning where the sun insists,
and in simple souls like mine.
It makes me feel there's still something
to have faith in.