We see the tulips, so we know that this
Is springtime, though the winter tarries still.
And here's a tree that dresses now in white—
And down the street, another, blushing pink.
And others yet are still without their leaves,
But spread their twigs to taut, expectant buds—
Or tiny leaflets, shyly peeking out.
And seeing all of this, we know that spring
Is here, though winter works its stubborn will—
So nights are close to freezing and we wear
Our heavy garments, huddled, to our work.
And here and there, on bushes evergreen,
We see the newest leaves, in varied hues
And backlit glory, as they rise and glow
Like votive candles, in the afternoons—
And so, from this and more, we know that spring
Is with us, though the winter does not leave.
So children now are playing in the streets.
And in the parks, the squirrels peek from trees
And little birds are chirping, “This is spring!”,
As mothers wheel their still well-bundled kids.
The season stays and tries to work its will,
As nights are crisp and close to freezing still,
So weather men and women talk of snow
As April's done and May is at our door—
And out in Minnesota all is white,
For winter, peeved, is venting still its spite—
But here in Brooklyn we are sensing spring,
And fancies, like the birds, are taking wing.
“But is it spring?” we ask, and wonder why
The winter, old like us, will still not die,
But lingers, as we do, although our times
Are up, and all that's left—are weary rhymes.
So leave, old winter, leave—and take us too—
For spring is here to drive us out—with you.
2018 April 21, Sat. Bensonhurst Park Brooklyn, New York
Bensonhurst Park, Brooklyn, New York. 2018 April 21 Sat. (On a good computer screen, click on the image for a better view.)