Tis I midst the forsythia bloom
and for I, spring cannot come too soon;
The robin sings of winter’s doom
while her winged kin share in the boon
of seeded sustenance, their beaks to groom
what once lay frozen, forgotten neath the harvest moon.
While o’er the land this cold morning still weaves her loom,
I await the warming thaw found in the heat of noon
to free my frosty limbs from the hoary gloom,
because, for they and I, spring cannot come too soon.