She can’t come

too soon,

sweet boon

to our wintered spirits.

 

She who tickles

trees into greenness,

coaxes colored buds

from barren brown,

shoos away

the stubborn snow.

 

She lures us

from our lairs,

teases wraps

from weighted backs,

dances about us

on the streets

we stroll with

resurrected smiles,

listening to her giggle

In the chatter of birds.

 

She shouts:

Wonderful Me!

 

And we agree.

 

© by Aimee Wise.

Used with the author’s permission.