Where Soon The Barren Tree Will Sing

The idea of this poem started the other day

while soaking up some much-coveted rare sunshine...

Soon, soon the barren tree will burst and be barren no more...

Soon gardens, fantasy-immersed will brim with hymn and chore...

Soon backdrops white, like canvases showcasing stencil-art

Will roll like emerald oceans to where earth and heavens part...

And living rooms will spill to patios and balconies...

As words like ‘b-r-r-r’ and ‘with-wind-chill’ will turn to memories...

Soon finches will wear gold again instead of dull chartreuse...

(It seems for every snow-storm we get this winter

a mild spell follows to keep the drifts from getting too massive,

and constantly teasing us with thoughts of spring)

Soon, soon the barren tree will burst and be barren no more

Soon gardens, fantasy-immersed will brim with hymn and chore

Soon backdrops white, like canvases showcasing stencil-art

Will roll like emerald oceans to where earth and heavens part

And living rooms will spill to patios and balconies

As words like ‘b-r-r-r’ and ‘with-wind-chill’ will turn to memories

Soon finches will wear gold again instead of dull chartreuse

And though we will be older then, we will feel more footloose

After we trade our parkas for the longed-for luxury

Of soaking in the sunshine or in shade beneath a tree

As daffodils with yellow, ruffled frills spilling spring’s mirth

A-dapple hills and dells from legacies held in the earth

Soon indoor tasks will wrangle with flasks welkin, zephyr-kissed

And set at odds the law and order of the to-do list

And winter will slip from its perch with every drip and drop

Where now we slip and slide and lurch and honk and hope we stop

Where now we sip slow cups of java and traverse the world

On parchment schooners, into sagas, page by page unfurled

Soon the gray-drenched duvet that drapes dusk’s dormant countryside

Will flush into a blossom-blushing dew-brushed eventide

And we will pause, perhaps, to marvel at how swift time flies

Through winter, now a sparkle on the landscape of spent sighs

...where hues that brood in wait for spring have rent bud-gates to soar

And stir the barren tree to sing and be barren no more

© Janet Martin

Soon winter will fly away like a blue jay

with beak full of peanut😂

Soon the gray-drenched duvet that drapes dusk’s dormant countryside

Will flush into a blossom-blushing dew-brushed eventide...