Why is it that I hold
the spring in such suspicion?
I have given up on the hope
that life will lift up its tousled head
and throw the covers back
with a fruity yawn the size of an open grave.
I am Midwestern enough
to eye the sky and tut-tut about snow,
to keep my coat on its hook by the door.
I am wounded enough by the purloined promises of buds sewn shut
to play the skeptic when they bloom.
Unbidden, then, this delight
when the sun strikes my eyes,
when the first great green middle finger
pokes its way up through the sod.
It’s been so long since last year
that the first warm day
smells of birthday cake,
and the little things
crinkle in the field like gift wrap.
And every murmur stills to silence
at a single daffodilian bow
crowning the package,
and I know then
that spring is worth the wait.
