The Birds Know

The birds know
that it is spring.
Even though
there is snow
on the ground.
Even though
the sidewalks
are icy.
They flower
into song,
proclaiming
their presence,
hunting
for a mate.
The cardinal
is at
its reddest.
The song sparrow
has begun
its unending melody.
And the migrating juncos
have started to vanish,
heading back
to their summertime territories.

The trees also know
that it is spring.
Even though
the blue sky
can be seen 
through their branches.
Even though
the wind chill
remains
below freezing.
The cherries
and maples
wear the tiniest buds.
The magnolia
seems on the verge
of bursting
into bloom.
Behind their thick skin,
the sticky sap flows,
a river
of new life.

My body knows
that it is spring.
Even though
it is wrapped
in wool
and fleece.
Even though
I need boots
to go outside.
My center
stirs.
My energy
pulses.
Like the birds,
I sing
out of instinct.
Like the trees,
I root downward
to stretch
towards the sky.

I celebrate
the morning
when the sun
moves far enough north
to slant in
through the blinds 
in my bedroom.
I celebrate
the appearance
of crocuses and daffodils
pushing persistently
up through the mud. 
I celebrate
the approach
of the equinox,
the transition
from longer nights
to longer days,
the moment
when I can unplug my happy lamp
and put it away
until the fall.

The birds know,
the trees know,
my body knows
that the cycles of the sun,
and the tilting of the earth,
and the shifting of the seasons
will endure,
even
when the sparrows
and the maples
and I
are no longer here
to see it.

February 2021
Copyright Diana E. Carroll