The first day of Spring
Is not March 21.
It is whenever the muddy road
Yanks my car back and forth
As it struggles to get me home.
It is when the snow has melted
But only on the south-facing hillsides.
It is when I go for a walk
And have to zip up my coat in the shade,
Unzip it in the sun,
And carry it up the hill.
It is when the voice of the brook
Turns lilting
And wood smoke
Hangs over the neighborhood.
It is when I hear the trill
Of the Red Winged Blackbird
And when I catch myself whistling
Some carefree nameless tune.
It is when,
Somewhere around this time,
Most likely on a walk,
I allow myself to believe
It's here.
