Waiting to be Sung

 

A gray morning light
Pales over the melting snow;
Pine trees are dripping.

 

Small birds are streaming;
They fly from all directions--
Their daily breakfast.

 

The scent of water
Hangs on the air like perfume
From an ancient sea.

 

 Two birds on a wire
Like some stray musical notes
Waiting to be sung.

 

 Drop laden branches
Crown the swirling dark water
Of the snow free stream.

 

 Slowly brown appears
As the winter white recedes--
A Spring undressing.

Drops are everywhere
Perched on the edge of bushes
Reflecting the sky.

 

A complaining tree
Groans in a brief gust of wind
Betraying its age.