Waiting for Spring

Waiting for Spring

I look out at the shriveled stalks,

dried-up leaves, barren earth,

hoping to see some sign of life,

a frail crocus or tuft of green,

a robin pecking for a worm. . .

Nothing but bleak gray days.

Yet memory reminds me spring

hovers in the stillness, underground

growth slowly stirs, awaiting warmth

and rain and seeds to sprout.

Soon forsythia will burst forth

in buttered glory to take my breath away

and pencil-stemmed tulips shoot up

with cups of scarlet, lavender and gold.

Each spring the earth is recreated

with a freshness that never grows old.