Winter

A whitewashed winter,
Covered in slush.
The season left slowly,
In a lingering hush.

Amazingly,

Bitter cold,
Turned gentle chill.
Then birdsong returned,
A triumphant trill.

For the first time,
In months,
I greet the windowsill.

And then time,
She pauses,
And stands still.

For Spring did touch,
With a gentle,
Poignant brush.

Before fading into summer,
Ever the long-lost lover.

But for now,
We have a rarity,
Of greeting her.

As she emerges,
Budding,
Tumbling,
From the winter.