It IS National Poetry Month. All three of these reflect my feelings today as I searched for signs of the spring. Still no buds on the trees but the crocuses are finally bursting forth and there are patches where the grass is starting to grow again, a darker green in the brown-green seas.
The moon looms just over the horizon
Bright and huge behind a gauzy mist
Higher, irregular puff balls skid past
Illuminated below in cold white-yellow
Fading to dark gray barely separable
From the inky black zenith sky.
Watching over white fields
Through the long winter
Talk, black, silent sentinels
Their scores of branches
Reaching into the brightening
Coated in a white mantle
From the first wet snowfall.
They bear witness to the bustle
Of a commercial season;
To the commuters cursing,
Sliding on the ice, driving
Too fast for safety
Too slow for their own impatience.
Oak, maple, elm, sycamore
From one another,
Shorn of their canopies.
Swaying gently, hosting a few
Diehard birds singing a cold song.
All through the short days
They will rest and watch
Until the rising sun is warmer;
Its light is brighter;
Then, as the crocuses burst
Will they stir back to glory.