It’s been two weeks since I admitted spring
was soft on us, insinuating birth.
The vines and trees unfurl their buds and fling
their pollen, while the bulbs disturb the earth
with centimeter nudge and infant thrust,
their verdance yellow-cored, exalted, firm,
as I a fortnight since declared they must,
for spring’s begun before its normal term.
We’ve wintered days before when it was warm.
We’ve seen March rain tear blossoms from the trees.
An offshore high can block us from a storm,
but false-spring never stretched to these degrees.
Now weathermen can’t find a wet forecast.
I covet every storm like it’s our last.