Sing, Lady Moon, despite diminished night,
As thaw melts away old snow’s albedo.
Sparrows twitter their usual rondeau:
A flocking-song of an ancestor’s flight
Who traversed gray meadows under hawk’s sight.
Earthworms toil in their gardens below.
Beneath black ice, water finds ways to flow,
And foggy mornings seem colder than night.
Surely winter lifts her hand from the beech
That pushes from each twig a tiny spear.
Yet buds remain shut on the magnolia,
And frost and snow-storm still hold a long reach.
Now, even cherry prepares for her year,
Forming buds beneath your misty aura.
