Waiting for the Robins to SingAlthough the calendar says it is spring,
I am waiting for this winter to end.
I am waiting for the robins to sing,
And I'm weary of the winter white trend.
When the stingy winter sun shares its light,
I must squint when I look through a window,
For the crystalline ice sparkles so bright --
Near as blinding as our ocean of snow.
Under blankets frosty, silvery-pearled,
Oh, so softly tucked beneath winter eaves,
Sleeps a deep viridian summer world:
Dreaming infant dressed with burgeoning leaves,
Waiting for the ancient sun to shine down,
And tell old Jack Frost, it's time to leave town.
So many have said it's the year of the Neverending Winter. I must believe our summer world slumbers beneath the ocean of snow whose nearest shore, is my front door. Think Spring!