The last little fingers of snow
Lie shrinving in the, sun.
Do you suppose they know
That the season for cold is done
As they drip away?
They cannot say,
And I mourn their loss of glory with a sigh,
But onIy one.
The wind is warm; the light is hot.
Every drab of brown and fade
Sports a green spot,
Or a rose shade.
Where bud was not,
Life swells,
Compels,
Yells,
"Now!" "Sprout!" "Grow!" "Make shade!"
The soil is mush.
The snow is slush.
Ripples ooze, across the scene.
This is an ugly moment,
A blink
Between white and green,
The change of screen
In Nature's play.
Fertile with fahrenheit,
Pregnant with promise,
Frisky with freedom,
With a slink
And a
Crouch
And
A
POUNCE!
Spring is here to stay.