Brisky winds are frisking,
trembling daffodil heads,
nodding and shivering,
I feel their quivering,
as if I were in their beds.

Garlic’s spears are rearing,
saluting Winter’s chill grip,
solid and sturdy,
I feel their fury,
mourning warmth’s swifted trip.

Sound of chime is climbing,
tinkling as gray skies race,
clearly resounding,
I feel their pounding,
relishing awakening’s embrace.

Erin Moen
2/20/04
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