The Promise

There are mountains of clichés,
piles of poetry, all proclaiming:
The Promise of Spring.

And no small wonder, really.

Winter casts a bitter, dark spell,
never-ending below-freezing nights,
frost coats all,
the drab trees, naked,
shivering minus their green garlands
the dull skies, the clouds uninspired, and
even the tall grasses are dead,
lying forlorn and horizontal.

The tomb of the world seems cast open,
with little chance of redemption
or rebirth
Winter’s death creeping, shadowing
over all

Somehow the crisp air
the yellows oranges reds
the blue skies of October
all faded to the same lame, deathly grey
without even a rattle to mark their passing.

And we retreat indoors,
we scurry, preparing for holidays and
family, gathering together in the warmth
of the hearth and the stove
brightening the nights
with artificial lights whose symbolism
we may not recall.

We plod
through the later months,
dulling the ache with chocolate
(is it possible to be homesick for the sun?)
this pitiless wind rattles our windows
and whistles down the chimney

Until

One day

I notice incremental changes:
a haze of green at the tips of distant
branches, which yesterday, yes! just
yesterday were still only grey

then the pink buds appear on the plum trees,
sunny daffodils materialize from earth,

But

not until
this morning -
when I go out looking
(again)
and I see,
finally,
that from the lifeless vines
on the arbor,
red green shoots have emerged,
strung tight as a gyroscope,
ready to twirl open -
can I exhale for
the promise kept,
once again.