The thirsty bulbs in jars on the windowsill greedily stretch for water;
The little avocado tree, from last season that I potted, droops next to them.

Like me it too is tired of the cold.  I have an aching in my bones.
For spring?  For change?  For what?

The small sounds of the house, the rock of a cradle of trees nearby
Blend with the cold patter of raindrops which, on the roof evaporate

Into steamy dreams and into the night.