Sandra BushSTIRRINGS
There is a restlessness to Spring
There is impatience
A pacing of the floor
A tapping of the fingers
A watching of the clock
As days grow long.
There is a blinking of the eyes
A giddy green
Erasing memories of
Winter’s chill.
The stomach churns.
The skin itches.
There is a longing to remember
What seems long ago
Forgotten.
An urge to touch soft
Pussy willow fur.
There is a drive to sweep clean
Every crack and crevice
Holding signs
Of winter’s gloom…
A moving of priorities
From inside
Now, to out.
A folding up of
Woolen grays and browns;
All traded for
Crisp pinks and denim blues.
There is a warmer side
To this house now
Where new dreams grow-
Where hope and seedlings stretch
In yellow rays;
Where purple finch
And sparrows
Nest in rolled up awnings,
And shell- armored hatchlings peck,
Impatient on this day,
To make their way
Toward sun.