The hushed news of winter's end
will not reach the earth in time
to speed the patterns of change.
Damp and capable, the first days
of spring chill the ground, the birds
and the heart. The lustful
frost returns, unexpected, tricking
the panicky bud who peeps
through plotted soil, skinny
wholehearted, and fearless,
until the sun eases out again
with its adorned messages
as bright and sweet as ripe honeycomb.
-Amy Nawrocki
Originally published in Slow Trains Literary Journal, 6.2