waiting for spring

on the cusp of spring
when the world is damp and bleak
when tall tree limbs 
stretch toward the heavens
stripped bare by the fierce 
nor’easters of winter
their brittle fingers 
clutching air 
against the gray
I wonder
what if winter hangs on
and spring never comes?
how easy it is to teeter
on the edge, weary from
long, dark nights, from
the frigid nip of ice-laced
wind against my face
chilling me to the bone
how silly of me to think it

spring always comes

as if on cue 
the song of peepers
from the edge of a nearby 
creek echoes through the mist
snapping me out of all doubt
settling my wild musing
reassured now, as if…
and I think, 
I just may have a few more
springs in me left until
winter wraps me in eternity
just a few more

~kat