Low in the early eastern sky,
Sun like melted butter spills.
O’er the fields of sculpted snow,
Each depression, colours, fills.
The rhododendron hugs herself,
Green leaves pointed down and curled,
Waiting for the warmth of spring,
To yawn and stretch and leaf unfurl.
Morning chorus, chickadees sing,
Do little black caps keep them warm?
Sounds of the morning, sights of the season,
Another new day is now born.
© Nancy J. Bond