Honeycombed and sinking fast
into black stains, the last
of the snow is old --
gray shoulders in the street.

Washed in soft tints
my little house stands forth
and the fresh wind rings
with skipping children's squeals.

In my garden swollen buds wait
ready as fists to open.

Strange that an old dame of eighty
with humpback and crutch
out watching the young
should chatter of death and go on
about spring just like heaven.