It's time. Today feels like the last snow, or perhaps, just perhaps, the next to last snow. I wait for the cranes. A couple of robins have already appeared. The time change shows things in a new, one hour later, light.
This I think
Is winter’s last hurrah.
It promises to melt
Tomorrow and the next day.
Anything more
Will count as a last gasp
As cranes fly through,
Robins stamp their feet
On snowmelt ground,
Demand worms
To surface,
Cock their heads
Listen
Listen
Listen
For the rising
Of the worms.
The breathing of the earth
Once again.
The inhale
The exhale
The scent of rotting leaves
Left behind
By the last hurrah
The last gasp
Before everything begins again.
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