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.