Spring came in at my window today
and bid me walk a while
in prayer.
I had thought March would not spare
us the relentless snow
that marked the lengthening light.
Her cruelness had already enticed
men south to white sand beaches
with record books lying in wait.
The plows were swimming in greenbacks
the shovel was standing sentinel
and the ice was slick beneath.
But when I looked out my window
on a day that was nearing Easter
I felt the warmth through the glass.
And you could scent the season in the soil,
the water melting in chocolate,
while the wind was nearly still.
On a telephone wire I heard the call
of a high-pitched bird
like a natural siren wail.
It had silhouetted itself against
a blue of untainted innocence
to show off a bright blood orange hue.
A lick of flame at the edge of a fire
this signal of the passion
of the birth beneath the snow.
I am not called a Christian
but I understand the sentiment
and the myth for northern springs.
Nature’s mending suspicions
so we forgive the trespasses.
A cardinal told me so.