Our faith has been tested.
And then Spring finally, feebly crept
in
with her enormous flocks of Sparrows.
The river broke up
the few crocuses whose buds were not
frozen by the late frosts finally blossomed
and at long last the
birch sap ran.
We were more ready for it than we have
ever been.
But the White Witch returns
and returns and returns again.
She buries the flowers.
And she shuts it all down.
The sapsicles hang heavy from the
tapped trees.
We pass the time, waiting for Godot.
And the sparrows, in a cold and hungry
stooper, fly low and erratic.
Their songs are desperate cries:
“I am still here; I am a
survivor against all odds."
They mix with the songs of my daughter Selwyn,
who is pleading with Spring to come for her birthday next week.
