Sharp green spears pierce frozen crust
with power of entitlement. I see what they will be.
Clean, strong, graceful color heads, these forceful shoots
are harbingers of what I know is…coming soon.
Cold breath riding on the ether all around, a chorus
of the natural world sings out with shocking joy. First these,
then those, now all at once, the birds astonish winter’s few remaining
bits; icy twigs, snow patched earth, I listen
as the orchestra of winds, competing for their warm-up space,
vibrates with the nervous pleasure of expectancy. I hear
them rest, and then the burst of happiness again
carrying belief that Spring is…coming soon.
And walking down along the quay, a bitter wind across
the water numbing skin that dares to bare above my scarf,
I pass the summer theater, resting, as its roots revitalize in
needed renovation of its aged timber frame. The shadow box
out front is bare and clean, freshly patched and painted, glass
replaced from winter’s wear and tear. No advertisement yet
is there, to tell of plays and dance. Yet painted bold and clear
across the box, a banner all in gold says…“COMING SOON!”
I’m not entitled to excited energy of spring
nor anything revitalized by sleep. I cannot keep
the faith of surety in growth,
nor hope I hear In song. I don’t belong
to that bright future, sure and strong.
One such as me has nothing left to own,
no right to wear a sash across
my chest to say my life is surely…
coming soon.
(Photo courtesy of Paul Pitcoff)