Early Spring At Last

EARLY SPRING AT LAST Like a surly spoiled child giving up his toy ship, The dirty snow grudgingly gives ground, Is forced back and releases soiled grip, Revealing crocus ghost-shoots pale and round. Air is mild like a woman’s soft breath Feeding life anew to the tree’s bare skeleton Arms, fresh-wrested from death: And raising each hard green bud-scion. River free at last from immobility: Giant ice-shards’ gaunt mute motion In the flowing waters of felicity, Singing its joyful way to the ocean.