Gray?  Only gray. . .keep
looking.  Keep look. . .there!
It is faint, but green is. . . . . .there!  
Buds are beginning to risk springing
onto limbs that their forebears swore
by.   Moss out front is shedding olive drab
in favor of a shade fashion mavens like for
spring.  Near the mailbox, a crocus raises its
tiny head, looks around, and decides it is safe
for little bro to peek.  But they will be on their
own for weeks.  Even weeds are clinging to
the walls of the tunnels they dug with a warmer,
sunnier, and more fertile clime in mind.

Slowdown the fault of iced rain and wind
keep flying without first filing plans.  Leaves
shrink from unfurling, and who wouldn't? 
The daffodils that shot the gun shiver
and go into huddles, or bend to look for
thaw-hinting cracks in the ground.  Wait
tortures me, too.   What if green doesn't
come back?   All will be lost, and we will
have no one to blame but ourselv--. . .wait. . .
unless I'm seeing things,  a leaf is opening wide.
Sun and leaf are trading grins!  Color is a deep, deep
green sprinkled with emeralds, and having a to-die-for
sheen that makes you think jade, lime, sage, veridian,
sea.  Oh, the riches it is ours to find in. . . . . . .g r e e n!

             (c)  Phyllis Jean Green
                     February, 2011