I Await...

I await springtime,

and the spreading of fresh dreams,

over weathered earth.

Winter's malignant spell

has frozen life's flow.

I anticipate the hour

of the leveret

and the lamb on verdant hills;

when trees finally

flourish with vibrant flesh pink

and milk white blossoms.

In springtime, the light returns

and transmogrifies

things. Young lovers hold hands. They

walk through bright streets and

avenues, like dreamers, in

madrigal measure.

Even in old bones, the pith

is stirred; a deeper

purpose is then rekindled.

So, I await the

warm miracle, that starts to

stir under snow in

late winter, when the birds' sweet

singing is rare: the

slow, wondrous unfolding of

beauty within a

little, green bud in that primed

season of rebirth;

exemplified by Easter.