I lie in bed,
sunshine streaming through my room.
Through the streaked window
I can just barely see the snow
melting and falling from the roof,
making soft thuds on the ground below.
I am impatient to be up,
out there in the disappearing slush,
plowing or shovelling
or collecting hens' eggs that are still warm.
Indoors no longer interests me;
I've plumbed these depths
too much this winter.
Tulips of pink and red grace the living room window,
and I sigh.
When will those little buds appear outside?
It was not a cold winter, but
I'm done with it,
done with being sick,
done with wheezing and coughing.
I want my window to be open,
letting in the spring air,
the cleansing air,
the healing air
of a new agricultural season.
I want to feel whole
My soul melts along with the snow,
becoming less rigid,
more soft and warm and real.
Spring is welcome here.