Winter’s back’s broken.
What it lacks snapped its spine.
Its frosty claw lost its clutch,
cracked as seed and shoot
makes white bone green.
Not right to say for joy,
to impose human emotion on them,
but the gathering of starlings
in my back garden bush,
it is good to hear them sing.
A low croak from the pond,
but when I looked I saw no frog.
Maybe next week I will see one,
hopping and leaping on the lawn.
The sun rises higher now,
sheds a warmth that thaws.
Safely I say, here’s spring’s dawn.