The Senses of Spring

Looking up...
Though the branches are still bare,
As they clatter together above me.
Is the wind that moves them not a bard of spring?
Do I not hear it?

And though I breathe no heady sweetness wafting from them,
No spring blossoms yet to fling their fragile, delicate scent upon the wind--
Still the spice of wet growing wood hangs newly in the air.
Is it not also a scent to drink deeply?
Do I not smell it?

And in those branches bare perch and sing birds
Newly returned, heralds of these welcome changes.
Especially with the trees still starkly bare,
Do I not better see them?

And looking down...
The grass so tragically fallen
A yellow heap of yesterday's glory, spawning sadness, yet
Are there not even now the moss and fern
Sprouting through, crying out "More green to follow."
Do I not reach down and touch them?

And looking out...
Though a winter's night still brittles the world
Is not the beauty of the chestnut horse
Standing in the sparkle of a dawning field a sign.
The sheen of his flank in full afternoon gallop
Even now evident in the flick of his morning tail.
Do I not know it?

So even as I take my last walk of winter...I gather my senses.
One remains, kept for another time, kept for hope.
The feast that brings all others senses into one?
Will I not taste it?