Spring Will Come
SPRING WILL COME
Small birds in draughty nests behind my brick chimney know that spring will come.
Fixing the gutters in leaky boots, my son knows that spring will come.
Herds of caribou hurrying to cross the still-solid Mackenzie,
Bearcubs with mum in deep-ice caves on Baffin Island,
Trees in the garden with rows of dormant budlets,
Ducks beaking the ice on frozen pondlets,
My tiny grandson wrapped like an
Eskimo as he plays in the snow,
All know spring will come.
I, too, know that long
After I am no more,
Spring will
Come.
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011
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