BY FRAN HARAWAY
It’s too soon for the front porch swing.
No crocuses are opeing.
The wind is from the north and chill.
No matter. Spring is here. I still
Am bound to sit and swing out there
And feel it in the evening air.
It’s much too cold. The trees are lean
And leafless—not a sign of green.
It’s foolishness to sit outside.
The mockingbird has testified
To spring’s existence, and I see
The buds are on the almond tree.
I’m sure it’s spring.
How do you know?
I think a cricket told me so.
Fran Haraway, “Swing” from Sharing the Seasons: A Book of Poems. Copyright © 2010 by Fran Haraway. Reprinted by permission of Fran Haraway.
Source: Sharing the Seasons: A Book of Poems (Margaret K. McElderry Books, 2010)