Seven

Wintry, iron-gray skies,

indifferent backdrop to banks of dirty slush.

low murals that tell the story of a thousand passing cars.

One day, after months of cold monotony, it finally comes:

the stir of ice crackings, drum-beat drips from roof and limb;

The song of rivulets, to brooks, to streams, to rivers.

A syncopated chorus of rising and waking.

Searching for warm, the crocus and hyacinth spy their green nubs

through mud and snow-patch,

Their petaled unfurling giving witness to gray surrendering to blue,

pouring liquid light over house and hill.

I am seven years old, and I am bursting.

Joy, sheer joy,

As I run my hand along a newly trimmed hedge exploding with birdsong from within.

I am skipping, running, building speed.

I am unstoppable.