Anticipation

The calendar and the ground hog both

tell me it’s not spring yet,

as does the snow still covering, clinging

to its own life in the bright light

of the day’s warming, the mornings, still cold,

chilled by the darkness of the long nights’

slow shrinking into spring and summer;

again, the morning pulls me out into its cold and darkness,

a faint glow showing, growing in the east, hopeful,

pulling me forward, gloved, my collar pulled up

against the wind blowing, a breeze, brisk,

tugging at the warmth I hold within me,

shoulders shrugged, my arms held tight against me,

hugging myself, but I pause now, stopping,

hopeful, too, listening through the rush of morning waking

for spring’s first resident’s return,

a flutter of wings or the unseen sound of her chirp,

her sharp chip or long trill calling out,

echoing, spring’s greeting in the cold air

of winter hanging on, calling out, announcing herself

and chasing away my winter doldrums,

rising up, carried by the warmth of a Robin’s return.