NOT YET SPRING

Not yet spring
by the Frog Pond
frozen by ice
the secretive wind blurring
me from the mountain air
by my bird fed sparrows
watching at a distance
when the sun in equal shape
bows near the sky cloud
stopping over the country store
for a blueberry muffin
by the Vermont lake
and later near my telescope
at my evening watch
hearing noise
in a barn full of kittens
the breeze on the porch
from my old poetry house
whirls up the yellow kites
in an open questioning ease
to rotate in a frosty breath stupor
when the cold snatches
my knotted red scarf
and the words of my mouth
cries out among Elm leaves
wishing for crickets to sound
dreaming of a peaceful hearth
mending all of us by the fireplace
in this cross country season
of my reliving youth now
in the identity of a guest visitor
from the quiet of a ski resort
as dogwood will soon emerge
with its leafage of my musing.