At this time of year, say, mid- February
Sitting at a great big window
Looking to the Kingston Forest
I again, feel the faintest tingle
I lower the book and stop my reading.
Perhaps, it is the decades of gardening,
And our home in the woodland
Not to mention my Nature versifying.
The soft tremor, like that of a butterfly flutter
Or the blossom sip of a hummingbird,
Distracts my reading, and with its soft, frisson,
Awakens me to the err-long, Springtime.
Each year, at the first sense of tremor
I again dream, of putting ear to earth,
So as to hear the plentitude of roots
From bulbs, bushes, trees and shrubs,
Stretching out, shifting and growing.
Could I but do this, I would also hear
The winter-burrowed, furry sleepers,
Rolling over to stretch and sniff
Standing ready, for their wake- up call.
The tremors prophesize the nascent Spring
And I, in tandem with the forest deer,
Shake my head, in gratitude and wonder.
-Leonard N. Shapiro [ February, 2020]