A Collage for Spring

Winter sun glints off cold metal, Colors bright, so intense They might cut you if you touched them. Wind whistles through the little hole Where the window doesn’t fit quite right. The trees stand huddled in little cliques, But bare they don’t quite touch; Lonely as snow-capped mountains, Close but oh-so-far from budding leaves’ embrace. Early darkness sets on souls Who wonder if spring will ever come again. A long-abandoned playground Rejoices in the laughter of children Who scramble and tumble in only jackets. But tomorrow, they say it will snow. The calendar marches on like clockwork, Yet ice still stifles puddles And the empty spaces where flora flourished Go glaringly unfilled. Where are they, The first green sprouts of March? The birds who fled for kinder climes? Cold souls sip hot soup and wrap themselves In platitudes. If Winter comes, they say. A bird shell crunches underfoot, Lying on paper-thin ice. Twigs and dried leaves Float by in beaks and paws To pad the homes for coming additions. Rain has blended sharp edges into watercolors, And the air smells ripe with new life— Even if the lasting cold burns lungs. Runners wear lycra too early in the morning; Soggy hiking trails boast footprints. Some spirit has infected the trudging souls Who shiver in their beds: Winter blankets were stashed away Before the cold was locked up tight, But optimistic expectations last: Spring is sure to come again.