To begin with, there are the geese. Greedy early birds
hell-bent northbound, flying in
these ragged, uncertain arrowheads.
Blackbirds suddenly squabble for space outside my door;
They announce themselves ambassadors of the change
whether I want them there or not.
Add to that tiny forest frogs, who seduce themselves
with a volume that defies their size.
The least attractive sounds I have ever heard,
Though I suppose I'm not a toad, not even a little tadpole.
Just an unknown, unwilling audience to
their deafening endeavors
I'm still waiting for the land to rise to their challenge.
What grass there is, is brittle and brown
Trees remain bare bones breaking the line of sky
The sun's warmth is yet undone by chilly winter winds
I have not seen a flower in three months that wasn't
Sitting pretty on a windowsill.
What a disservice done to nature in declaring its start
when plastic comes off the windows, or
when enough willpower is gathered to clean the house:
Listless printed numbers on a lifel