Spring in New England

A crumple of old snow
still covers the earth
bleached weeds and grasses
poke through,
showing not a sign of life
the birds pipe lonely,
occasional cries,
and dark rivers run ominously swift,
flinging along branches and patches of ice.
Still I can look at the grayest day
and and see in it promises that dazzle my eyes
visions of green - -  everywhere green
green as only New England can be
I feel a friendly warmth
overlying the uncharitable chill
its light touch comes and goes
and then persists
between the puddles of melting ice
and pockets of worn down snow,
earth softens
for a day or two, it gives off
the sumptuous scent of thaw,
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 last year's grass
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...

12021978