In Winter's final, gasping breath,
February fades, quite bereft,
And snow's white crowns, once worn with pride,
Now stretch to streams that swiftly glide.

The streams rush on, and with them, March,
Icicles fall, their grip unclenched,
My red cat - a tailless bard,
Sings songs that fill the air unmarred.

A crow, atop a lonely post,
Preens its beak, a gracious host,
Utters a word of fate, and then,
Seeks out a nest, time and again.

But when the sun dips out of sight,
Winter wakes within the night,
Breathing cold and damp, it stirs,
Licking ice o'er puddle spurs.

Yet morning sun shines bright anew,
Streams race faster, birdsongs grew,
I wait - for April's grass, uncurled,
I wait - for May's blossoms to unfurl.