I wait for Spring as one waits for
delivery of a package from the Post Office
— the beautiful something ordered by phone,
from a catalog. Not that I am foolish enough to think it is I
who tells the stubborn frost-bitten months
— enough. Goodbye. I wait for Spring while someone many flights upstairs,
and obviously in charge, turns page after calendar page.
Finally March appears. Time to inspect the old lawn,
to explore — find signs of life, hints of change.
Perhaps a newly uncovered, leftover grassy tuft
still green, warming itself in the sun once more.
I welcome even the sloppy, mud-making rain,
because it opens up the tightly closed ground,
prods the dozing sod beneath into getting back to work again.
Suddenly I’m all ears. — Is that a robin I hear?
Hey, I recognized the little fellow, also the song he sings.
Must have been in this place before, yet he looks so brand-new.
Like a charming, much-promised gift
just pulled out of a box a postman might bring.
Laura Scribner, Goshen NY (1925 — 2015)