Fingers Crossed

Sitting at this rickety old wooden table,
I can see the sunshine flickering off
the burbling brook below my house. 

The fall-deadened trees sway and rustle in
the sweet spring air as fat gray squirrels
tumble and climb and nose around the underbrush.

A breeze lifts the pastel blue sheets drying
out on a clothesline that seems just on the brink of snapping
and falling to the green-brown-red ground.

Pale paper-thin leaves float over the new grass blades
as chicken feet scratch up muddy flower beds and 
peck over pine needle laden roots.

On the calendar, spring happened almost a month ago,
and Vermont never seems to make up its mind, 
but I think this time the warm breeze of spring will stay.

(Fingers crossed.)