This morning, early,
Goldfinch and Chickadee
still cluster and mine the feeders.
All is earth-hued and winter weary,
even the rising sun is without color.
October's pumpkins slump,
deflated, in the garden,
the fountain gathers dust,
and, oddly, a single silver key.
No Robins. No Mockingbird song.
A Great Horned Owl lifts
and, swooping low before me,
circles, soundlessly and is gone.
Five more days until March opens her doors.
Perhaps She will bring the rains,
and color, and new light.
The cats are impatient with me.
Suddenly, around a corner,
I discover Quince, fully flowered,
fragrant and shivering in the icy wind,
skirted with the beginnings of Lilies.
Turning, at a twittering from the bridge,
I am amazed to see Swallows rising,
and here, beside my booted foot, there shines
a single golden trumpet, heralding Spring.