The ice and snow are melting now,
And drops are falling from each bough.
I try to count them, but, somehow,
The number’s just too great.
It isn’t that the spring is here;
It’s still too early in the year,
And, though I know it’s drawing near,
I’m happy just to wait.
I squelch along the mushy trails
Beneath the hazels’ green-gold tails
And almost tread on two brown snails
Conversing by a gate.
There’s something in the not-yet spring
Which brings what only it can bring.
Photo by Patti Black on Unsplash
