On a gray March day, the trees are bare
and I watch a few tiny snowflakes fall straight down in the silent air.
It is hard to believe that the world will improve,
or that, at the very least, one can fill a meaningful role.
What is one to do?
We know we won’t last:
Still, spring will soon come again to this hemisphere.
From where I sit,
I see through my window,
small patches of white on the wooden deck.
I will rise and go to examine the bit of mulch
where yesterday I saw a crocus bravely blooming.
You may also like these poems:
“On Those Cold Days“
“At Last You Open Up the Door“
“Always the Procreant Urge of the World