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. 

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