I’ve thought about this poem a lot the past few days. I used to be able to recite it by heart and I said it aloud to myself before getting it ready for you, gentle readers.
The ice and freezing rain has stopped here, one last fling of winter. The daffodils are pushing up resolutely, going through or around the piled up leaves from last fall. The maples are well budded out and the willows have a new wash of gold on them. There’s no knowing the precise date and hour that spring will arrive, only that it will, in the time-honored measure of the earth.
