when springtime comes

i am five again

running around my yard squealing at the buds

as they poke their sleepy heads

from the still-cold ground

ready for their second chance.

i read an anne bradstreet poem

in college

where she envies the spring.

she acknowledges, in awe,

that the trees have a chance for rejuvenation

the flower’s encore,

life begets life.

i understand her envy now.

nature always gets that second chance

the time for regrowth

but what about us?

and then i remember the new england winters

my tear-stained cheeks

hugging my knees wishing for sun and warmth

waiting.

bradstreet and i were alike in many ways

mothers

scared of the winter

writing poetry in a soft light among snoring creatures

our pens scratching paper

our minds unable to rest.

wishing we too could rise again

from the dusty soil

squinting in the sunlight

ready to stretch our roots.

but that’s why we have spring

it’s here for you and me

to brush off the wet snow

turn our faces to the sun

and drink, drink, drink

we all can start anew.