January, February,

Sometimes most of March,

The skies look dreary,

Tend to take away our starch.

The trees look so naked,

Appearing dead, forlorn,

Standing so stoic,

As the wind blows along.

The excitement from Christmas,

Is a fading memory,

As we tuck in the attic

The boxes and tree.

The animals try hard

To stay out of the cold;

They burrow, they hide,

Retreat Winter’s hold.

The cars are greyed masses,

With mud under wipes;

They slip and they slide

To maneuver the hikes.

The yard is a mess,

Covered with debris;

Hiding the lawn,

Looking empty to me.

Spring is the most

Exciting of all;

The shoots that were buried

Are poking up tall.

The bulbs pave the way

With their bright, shiny faces;

Pushing through snow

To gladden our spaces.

Tulips and daffies

And crocus abound,

As the temperature rises

And thaws out the ground.

Then buds on the trees,

The shrub and the bush,

Break out in their glory

To give us a push.

Shades of grey quickly

Switch to blue and sun;

We suddenly forget

The winter’s so long.

Kathy Hayes

Enumclaw