We’ve passed Imbolc; technically it’s spring. I hear frogs now, most evenings. Here’s a poem to celebrate what’s on the way, from that time I completely missed it.

The Familiar Path Illustrates Opportunity Cost

It's the only time of year I've walked here
when the ground looks like somewhere I'd truly want to rest.
I can see the hollow where some small creature did:
all-heal and bedstraw, pressed and folded.

As every year, the roses are striving
to roof the muddy trail with a bendy arch, 
which they promise to decorate. I left two weeks ago, 
and they weren't here. But they must have been, planning.

Cherries lift their fistfuls of defiance to the wind.
They will be fruit! In the meantime, a glorious mess. 
Their buds when I left: contained. A glance away,
they slipped their short and furious fluorescence.

Was I thinking just now that spring is soft with welcome? 
It hails like I'm a taxi: come! I'm going! 

—Originally published in Cascadia Rising Review, local to me here in Portland, Oregon. Thanks, Team CRR!