It's Almost Spring

I arise filled with the expectancy of birds
as they flit through empty tree branches
searching for signs of renewal.

The clouds didn't show up today
and the bold sun on icy sidewalks
has turned them into gray mush.

Cold air spills through the open window.
Destiny is chilled but the winter wind
has failed and I am encouraged.

I have not listened to the news
so my heart is free to imagine
time filled with quotidian sunlight.

I think I will dress lightly,
not turn on the TV and sing
to those boisterous birds.


Spring Poem

It's time again to write a poem.
I look out the window and there it is.
spring, stark and eager for the sun.

Is this the stuff of poetry, this dingy
morning light, sun filtered through
a melancholy sky and crisp air.

Unseen in leafless trees, the birds
sing and seem to know, or perhaps,
they just encourage this new turning.

There are shaded patches of snow
tucked like small memories beneath
evergreens. Are they poems?

Discordant sounds from the street
confuse sonorous birdsong
and spring somehow seems delayed.

Poems take a turn as the wheels
of a factitious life crowd out
the subtle signals of the earth.

The poem's soft edges flow
into the cold soil and spring mutters
its faltering collection of words.