In the world of friends, where travel is slower, What do you do there, in the world of rain? Who shares the segments of your tangerine? Which exams do you take again?

The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea.

There’s crimson buds, and white and blue, The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers.

Let the wind blow greedy Gusts against the branches Until the treetops rattle And the buds are hard. Wait, spring, till the earth is ready For the flowering.

Rain sweetened the cave and the dove still called; The flowers leaned on themselves, the flowers in hollows; And love, love sang toward.

No more gems to be gathered So let us all press on When Jesus comes to claim us And says it is enough The diamonds will be shining No longer in the rough.

Hark, now hear the sailors cry Smell the sea and feel the sky Let your soul and spirit fly Into the mystic.

What matter if the sun be lost? What matter though the sky be gray? There’s joy enough about the house, For Daffodil comes home today.

The birds were louder this morning, Raucous, oblivious, tweeting their teensy bird-brains out. It scared me, until I remembered it’s Spring.

When I can hear the small woodpecker ring Time on a tree for all the birds that sing; And hear the pleasant cuckoo, loud and long -- The simple bird that thinks two notes a song.

The brown buds thicken on the trees, Unbound, the free streams sing, As March leads forth across the leas The wild and windy spring.

March is a tomboy with tousled hair, a mischievous smile, mud on her shoes and a laugh in her voice.

An earlier version Of sunrise Teases the curtains Teases the whiteness of sheets That gather around my ankles That remind my feet to breathe.

Close close all night The lovers keep. They turn together In their sleep, Close as two papers In a book That read each other In the dark.

Goodnight room, Goodnight moon, Goodnight cow jumping over the moon, Goodnight light, And the red balloon, Goodnight bears, Goodnight chairs

February, month of despair, with a skewered heart in the centre. I think dire thoughts, and lust for French fries with a splash of vinegar.

Bare branches of each tree On this chilly January morn Look so cold so forlorn. Gray skies dip ever so low Left from yesterday’s dusting of snow.

Midwinter spring is its own season Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown, Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.

There are two seasonal diversions that can ease the bite of any winter. One is the January thaw. The other is the seed catalogues.

These sudden ends of time must give us pause. We fray into the future, rarely wrought Save in the tapestries of afterthought.