Spring in Montreal
is a breech birth
we can feel it coming
We can feel the earth groaning,
absorbing the ice and snow
of months of frigid darkness.
The sun, its warmth
no longer faint, fickle, theoretical
coaxes, wheedles the first snowdrops, crocuses.
These are never picked.
Now come the shoots of daffodils and tulips
and grass, that universal miracle
The sound of hardy birds but still not a leaf.
A few closed buds along a twig
and heavy rain –the waters breaking
cold and painful.
The brave yellow blooms
stand against a meagre unkind frost
And then, sap drips from a vine
and the whole city knows
a long warm day
with magnolias, pink or white like waxy cups or earth stars
opening on the leafless branches.
The moon rises soft and silvery
over the city blessed by newborn Spring.