The grass still is pale, and spring is yet only a wind stirring
Over the open field.
There is no green even under the forest leaves.
No buds are blurring
The pencil sketch of trees. No meadows yield
The song of the larks, nor the buzz of bees conferring.
Only the wind says spring. Everything else shouts winter:
The whitened beards of grass,
The shriveled legs of corn with their trousers flapping,
The year-old cuts in the root of the sassafras;
A spruce-cone empty of seeds, the scales unwrapping
Open to dryness, last year's withered peach,
A stiff tomato-vine begun to splinter,
The crones of milkweed talking each to each.
The earth stands mute, without a voice to sing.
But the wind says spring.
-- Helen Janet Miller
My Juicy Little Universe. Blow on over and check out the offerings!
The photo is from the Library of Congress.