The sun shines upon the cold land
driving the chill deeper into the soil.
Winter will not let go its grasp
upon the throat of blooming spring,
and yet we know that it must,
we know that it will, though slowly.
Blooming crocus bulbs wait
for the cold to finally subside
before completing their task at hand,
waiting on one more snowfall.
Robins, once again as is their wont,
return too early from their sojourn,
and sit, hunched, ruffle-feathered,
in the icy north-wind blast.