So now we wait,
dying for a ressurection.
A blade or two of grass,
like mini telescopes peeking
above the earth that barely
survived Winter’s death.
The morning mist of anticipation.
That once frozen lake,
now rippled with reflection,
waves of purple, yellow, and green.
And still we wait,
for daffoldils to say hello.
The daring ones among
the first to be reborn.
That scent of earth,
and rain, and sun.
A subtle hint,
a mere detection
of Spring’s invitation
to every snowbird.
Come for the awakening,
the vernal celebration.
Take flight, the North
no longer sleeps.
Wading Place Path 