The Woods are Waiting

Is it warm or cold?
The bright sun is deceptive,
The sky crystalline.

Winter still holds on;
The stream still bubbles freely,
But the air is icy.









The mottled mailbox,
Now transformed by the shadows
Into a patchwork.



The woods are waiting;
Shadows cover the dark ground;
Green is yet to come.









Wind sweeps to the road
Coming from the deepest woods
With an icy breath.

Trailing leaves, dust, fumes,
Oil truck lumbers up the hill
Followed by silence.

Today drivers race
As if they try to capture spring
Or flee from winter.












Framed against the sky
Solitary nest hangs high
Born in last year's spring.