"What the heck!" this cardinal seems to be saying, as he searches for seeds beneath the many inches of snow that fell last night. More snow is predicted to fall throughout today, the last day of official Winter. Ah well. We've had worse snowstorms even later than this, so I keep thinking Spring, which arrives with the Vernal Equinox tomorrow. Officially. Right.
Here was a fine and most appropriate poem to ease my grumpiness this morning. I heard it on Garrison Keillor's "The Writer's Almanac" on NPR.
Here in the Time Between
and the bud of the rhododendron,
we watch the robins, look into
the gray, and narrow our view
to the patches of wild grasses
coming green. The pile of ashes
in the fireplace, haphazard sticks
on the paths and gardens, leaves
tangled in the ivy and periwinkle
lie in wait against our will. This
drawing near of renewal, of stems
and blossoms, the hesitant return
of the anarchy of mud and seed
says not yet to the blood's crawl.
When the deer along the stream
look back at us, we know again
we have left them. We pull
a blanket over us when we sleep.
As if living in a prayer, we say
amen to the late arrival of red,
the stun of green, the muted yellow
at the end of every twig. We will
lift up our eyes unto the trees hoping
to discover a gnarled nest within
the branches' negative space. And
we will watch for a fox sparrow
rustling in the dead leaves underneath.