It isn’t spring until
ice and cold recede
and suddenly one night
the evening air echoes
with a chorus of spring peepers,
belting out their lusty tune
breathing, ballooning, releasing
serenading, wooing.

It isn’t spring until,
after rosy rhubarb stalks emerge,
strawberry rhubarb pie dances
a bittersweet melody on my tongue,
warm and dripping with melting swirls
of rich, golden French vanilla ice cream
and crumbles of crust.
A tantalizing tango of flavors.

It isn’t spring until
the dark purple, tightly furled buds
of the gnarled lilac bush
lighten and open
and their heady scent
spills out onto the sun-warmed air.

It isn’t spring until
the swift, whirring, buzzing hum
stirs the blossom-scented air,
and the sudden flash of red
marks the return
of the ruby-throated hummingbirds.

It isn’t spring until
the sweet, rich smell
of the freshly mown lawn,
heady on a cool evening,
wafts through cracked windows
perfuming the air,
living and green.

It isn’t spring until
a gentle warm rain falls
and verdant foliage glows
and blossoms bloom
and a small knot of ice,
residue of a long bitter winter,
releases, melts and relaxes

Ah,
Spring.