In the last hour of winter,
(forty-seven degrees and cloudy),
I wait for the equinox.
Fifty minutes now to spring.
Snow lasted until ten days ago,
cold lingered longer.
The bulbs are only now showing a little green,
and the buds of the maples are tightly brown.
Will this bleak winter never end?
Of course spring will come, and summer after –
too hot, bleached, drought-defined.
But in the brief transition, longed-for,
awaited without patience,
there will be redbud hiding among the trees,
blazing forsythia and magnolias full of cream,
an Easter glory of dogwood and crabapples.
Tomorrow, the forecasters say,
will be sixty degrees and sunny.
How am I to wait?