Waiting

The cold brown earth melts and heaves,
dries from the effort, cracks with thirst.
And I wait for the first green leaves.

The wind howls every night, it grieves
the lost winter; this waiting time is worst.
The damp brown earth swells and heaves.

The last snow melts off the sloping eaves.
On bare branches forsythia bloom first.
And seeing them, I wait for the leaves.

Squirrels scurry and dig like comic thieves,
trying to retrieve food winter dispersed.
Under their paws the brown earth turns and heaves

On rough skinned trees a small spider weaves.
Spiral buds are swollen, about to burst.
And I wait for the birth of the leaves.

I am the audience who perceives
the play unfolds, eternally rehearsed.
The soft brown earth swells and heaves.
And I wait for the pale green leaves.