Anticipation

I feel you stirring beneath the sod-- I doubt all men give thought to hear-- your sounds, infinitesimal, require a special kind of ear. An ear in tune with nature's song a heart that glories in the spring; these things I own and so I hear your almost noiseless murmurings. Although the Winter lingers long; her pure white downy quilts abound; your hearts have heard Spring's siren song alluring you out of the ground. I wait in almost breathless awe, for one day soon I know I'll see a crocus or a snowdrop's face defying death eternally. I do enjoy the winter's chill-- if there are waiting somewhere near warm loving hearts, a home, a fire to spark the frosty nights with cheer. But to you, sweet heralds of the spring, my favoritism I confess; your mistress, fair, has won my heart with innocence and loveliness. Copyright, 1987, Faye Gibson