These Days

The fallow patch, with Christmas over,
the year-in-waiting not yet come. Instead,
grey days are soft and muddy underfoot,
frostless and reticent; deep in their bed
snowdrops are inching up — that first green itch
and thrust of spring, the buried watershed.

D.A. Prince

If you have any thoughts about this poem, D.A. Prince would be pleased to hear them