We're deep to our waists
In February;
Trees look like a geriatric pool-fitness class,
And the grass,
Sparse as the bobbing skulls.
I heard a lone Canada goose overhead,
The V has left the others for dead;
And a gray pall covers all
With winter's threadbare spread.
The alarm is set,
The time is right,
The season's snug,
But not sleeping yet.
Soon, the beast will close its eyes,
And Spring will march in,
Fresh and vigorous,
Like a new recruit,
Green and anxious.
She'll fire-up roots, flowers and leafs.
In the pool they'll sway in the breeze,
Branches touching in Spring's reprieve.
