It’s more than this spell of warmth.
Tomorrow, we know, the cold will return,
the clouds will blanket the sky. Even so,
we feel the first breathings of spring.
Maybe something inside us senses
the rise of the sap in the trees,
the first stirring of roots beneath the ground,
the slow waking of tiny seeds.
The seasons know no calendar.
They simply roll, round and round,
dancing to some ancient song,
and something inside us learns to hear
their first, distance notes. Today
I’m sure that I heard spring.