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And somewhere, stirring, already emerging,
somewhere in long seconds and fleeting hours,
somewhere, waiting, there is spring,
and gentle clouds, and peeking pastel flowers,
and birds with beady eyes that take the wing,
and a wind that wafts, and whispers, not devours,
and nights that hesitate before they fall,
and spring is ready to embrace them all.

Somewhere it is ready to embrace,
not to hover, not to stall and shyly wait,
but to show its sweetly smiling face,
not to tarry, not to hesitate,
but at the urge of nature, time, and fate,
to break through stormclouds with a surge of grace.
Spring is waiting, it will not be long
before the time of birth and hope and song.

Of course there is false spring, spring that deceives,
deceives itself and us and does not last,
as frosty fingers claw at newborn leaves,
reminding us that winter has not passed,
and icicles still hang upon the eaves,
and gnawing gales let forth their brutal blast,
and we may think we hoped in vain
for winter had returned again.

But in the end, we know it will prevail
we know it will spread forth and fill the land,
we know it will not ultimately fail,
for light is stretching out its ageless hand,
and there is no frost, no blast, no gale,
that will ever finally withstand
the beauty, birth, rebirth and blossoming
the promise that's fulfilled with every spring.

Timely!

No, seriously, I think that's a wonderful poem. I love the use of repetition and the insistence on optimism, and I think the structure is well-wrought: that third stanza reminding us that winter can strike back in its death throes, before the final reassertion of spring's glory.

Thank you.