The world was dead, quiet, not a single bird
Or cricket sang. The nights were long, endless,
winter hadn’t loosened her grip yet.
The season was for mourning, coming to terms
With the reality of a lifetime of slate skies,
The cold and lifeless ground, crocuses
Forever sealed inside their bud like closed fists.
So when, early in the morning, I stepped out
Barefoot onto the cement outside,
I had to suspend my disbelief at the warmth
Of spring’s fingers on my face, the smell
Of life, the sound music slicing the early
Morning silence. A harbinger of spring,
I screamed across our thawing lawn,
Dad, it’s the ice cream man!