TIRED LOVE

Once the city welcomed Winter with his frost-art

on the kitchen window,

his soft jewel snowflakes fallen on a dark sleeve.

The power in his breath set bare branches clashing

in a harsh percussion.

But we are fickle and now we search

at street corners for the green- haired boy

his cap trimmed with a bright feather.

Spring, you are late!  Where are you hiding?

Again and again at the window as if waiting for a guest

who promised to come,

or for a beloved child who forgets,

carless over his game, careless of longing.

Late Spring, are you racing

down the great river that holds the island city captive

all the long bitter winter?

Sweep down with those great floes of ice that speed along

over the still untamed rapids.

Don’t you hear the songs of poor birds, your heralds

sitting high at the tops of leafless trees

to catch the first rays of sun?

Only when your soft breath

whispers secrets to a sleeping lilac

can they nest.

Come, we promise to prune the vine

and to sit out on the porch at noon.

We promise to drink tea outdoors, carefully placing chairs in the sun.

We promise to hang out washing on the line

and to praise snowdrops and crocuses

who dare in the little sheltered garden

to hear your singing voice.

Only come and we will turn to you.

Caress our hands and faces with kisses soft or rough.

You are late, but come at last and in one warm day

We will forgive your late coming!