Not Wholly Sold On Spring
Spring's arrived in earnest now.The air is warm.The trees
by Lawrence Beck
Have leaves.The bumblebees, true to their calling, bumble
Here and there among the early blossoms on the shrubs.
A thousand birds are bent on shouting over others to be
Heard, but I, my love, am slow and silent, doing those things
I must do.The sap's not risen much in me, as you
Remain away, and saying this and that will keep you
Where you are, so very far from me."What good
Is spring, " I ask myself, "when what I want most
Isn't near, when what would prove that winter's over
Hasn't come to be? "