Catkins

Drifting through these songless woods

Leaves like late bedraggled butterflies

Flutter in a dismal winter wind.

Puddles are dancing wetly 

To a rhythmless rain

And February feels forever…

But now my steps go squelching

Through a hazel grove – catkins!

Dusty fingers feeling for the Spring

Make golden notes upon a silver stave

That spell for the mind attuned a tinkling song

Inaudible except to the imagination

But soon will swell, descanted, bassed 

And multiplied into fortissimo –

And I aim to be dancing when it comes.