Winter, Please Be Gone

I am ready, more so than in any other year,
for Winter to depart our midst.
Spring may tease us,
green fingers grazing fingers, toes
with her fickle sense of timing.
But Winter sits, solemn and heavy,
unmoving upon the land
even as days lengthen,
leafless trees hold hints of buds swelling
while blackbird flocks trace Etch-a-sketch lines across ash-gray skies,
and robins course over still-sleeping meadows,
yet refuse to sing.

Winter, if I ask nicely, will you please leave?
My bones ache for the massage of sunlight.
If you'll depart, in your wake I'll seek
from the woodland seep, the chorus of peepers
like a warming hand upon my cheek.

Windblown bluestem stalks in tiny stacks
where meadow voles and sparrow flocks
sheltered from your frozen kiss
and woodcock stopped to leave its chalk
sweet smell of Spring earth still persists

Yet Spring won't show until you split
and we can't stand another month of slush
the crocus and daffodil are waiting
patient for the cold's abating.

Winter you, too, must be weary
Do your joints ache from your own chill?
does your icy wind make your eyes teary?
so why then do you linger still?

Dear Winter, if I have to beg
you've been here since November's feast
well now it's time to shake a leg
Winter, please be gone, you beast.