With Sunday still rising,
their songs ushered hopefulness near
and nearer still — my heart’s daugh to fill.
Exalted passerines, whom I’ve hardly heard till now,
Warbled, as they do when Winter’s daughter comes.
They’d be miscalculating by more than a month,
Given February has ruled for only five days,
and in this hemisphere, the hoary despot
often overdraws discontent.
His desire to overpower favours that of the Ford bros.
Thanks to whom we’ve marked this time with uncertainty,
Ever expecting one last crusty touch instead of warmth.
But look what powerful hearts carry these passerines,
How ever did such tiny reservoirs contain such glee?
Behind the curtains I’ve found little reason to sing.
The scant snow has thawed;
Today’s high will be 3C;
The wind sits still; And,
in the yard, red buds cue.
Ah, very well, percher . . .
You perceive more than light,
And offer songs in good faith.
May a new season soon dawn.