This nearly-spring has come heavy, wet, and white
With twisted backs and heart attacks
To mock our visions of daffodil and crocus.
Still, perhaps not all is in vain:
There are hints of vernal warmth in the scattered sunshine,
Allegations of orioles, rumors of robins,
And at some point, one of us will say
Looks like we just might have made it through another one.
We have cast our lot together
In this cold corner of the Rust Belt,
This land of the staid evergreen and the steadfast, squawking jay,
And though we are not immune to notions of renewal and renaissance
(For how many years have we seen the cardinal brighten,
The pines spawn their cones), we will not giddily consider
Some grand notion of rebirth, as we are content to count ourselves
Among the lesser known kin of the Montagues and Capulets,
Making our peace with the pasts of ourselves and others,
Eschewing dramatic draughts and wailing speeches
For the dignity of endurance, the gallantry of compromise.
Still, as we walk among the inexorable eventuality
Of flowering trees and forsythia, it will come as no surprise
If, with the most economical of notions, I take your hand.