While we wait for the robins to come home

While we wait for the robins to come home,

spring’s true harbingers returning,

and pray that the groundhog was wrong,

afraid of his shadow and the potential

for spring’s return, scurrying below,

we endure a little longer the cold and snow,

content ourselves with the business

of winter winding down, down-hearted

at predictions of snow and the prospects of shoveling,

but our spirits soar on a day

when the sunshine’s bright in a summer sky,

rich and blue and clear and

the temperature creeps up past 32

and holds there, warming us,

even as it warms the earth,

readying us for spring, content

in the passing seasons of our lives.