Middle Days

The tree tips are swollen, pushing buds high,
Yet flakes of snow make trails down the sky—
And things have come that I worry by.

This middle day holds more winter than spring
But soon it will be spring and summer, alternating—
And with it, all the warmer things.

The duck, there, pauses in the pond
And his ripples still carry on . . .
Given time, spring will sing her song.

written April 7, 2025