Trees, drunk with snow melt,
push buds through winter skins,
impatient crocuses bustle from the soil.

Everywhere something stirs,
its long sleep nearly done.
The wind blows without a bite,

birds are on the wing.
Long ago, it was gulls that called.
Now it’s wild geese.

Suddenly, I’m old,
every day a gift;
it was always so

had I but known it.