Omen for a Gray March Day

Trees on a gray March day
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: 
our bodies, 
our minds, 
our aspirations.  
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.
Crocus in spring

You may also like these poems:

On Those Cold Days
At Last You Open Up the Door
Spring Crocus
Always the Procreant Urge of the World




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