Sonnet IX

The days grow long and trees do anxious bloom,
Warm breezes flow and conjure up the flowers.
A flower small does wish for warmth to loom,
Returning coldness would his life so sour.
Summer's prophet does gain my attention rapt,
My mind, day dreaming, does ask of future,
But Sping's foretelling doth end up all capped,
Past pending warmth the Spring would telling err.
And so I settle in to watch the birds,
Whose long southern sojourn deprived us so,
And write patient, anticipating words,
As time, ne'er ceasing, does slowly still flow.
    Let the Spring come and happy joy bring here,
    To all those who for this did lend a ear.