Baby Spring


Father Winter
Sheds the chilly wetness of his cloak
Full force
Upon cowering January,
His harsh temperament
Cursing bleak February in ebbing strength;
Then, with cold rage at death’s nearness,
He shakes out the last clumps of ice
Upon shivering March
To trudge grimly up the mountains
In snowy retreat.
Baby Spring
Lifts in surprise his green head
To cry at daddy’s departure;
He ducks beneath limb and tree intermittently
With each lessening storm;
And then, creeping forth on shy feet,
Spring grasps the remains of Winter’s fallen cloak,
Wrings it out upon grateful April,
And with fresh shoots of confidence
Lifts the scepter of his rightful throne.