about spring. title ideas welcomed.

The trees are rustling back
to the woken world
this week.
They shift their weight
of white
and wait,
dreaming of green.
Spring is trickling in at last,
sliding aside the snowbanks
in its own sweet time.

All in good time.

Soon enough
we are sloshing through slush
mucking through mud,
ankles to eyeballs in clouds of dust.
All the while the world is tilting,
tilting,
tipping towards the sun.

On sunshine breezes
summer birds
a-chirp, a-flirt
and a-flutter,
are winging their way
back north.
We year-round ravens squawk
our indignation
(fascination)
flap our feathers and gawk
at the gaudy colours.

Winter is dripping away
one rooftop at a time.
Wave au revoir
(it never goes for long)