Winter is leaving,
is slipping and sliding,
away from the earth to let crocuses show.
Icicle fingers are grasping
but losing their grip on the eaves
to fall shattered below.
Winter is leaving as love leaves,
believing the pain and the passion
are spent and must go.

Spring enters dancing,
delighting in color,
sure of her welcome.
How can she know
she hasn’t a morning in store
to compare with a sunrise on night’s gift
of new-fallen snow?