It has kept us waiting: branches bare,
tiny buds compact with withheld promise
as we huddle in winter-gear, look sunward
for the green on frosted hills.
Birds probe soil with sceptical bills;
claws tap worm-morse; little stirs.
Sunlight oblique through windows,
catches dust of jobs still to be done,
catches the corner of a wedding photograph
not yet six months old. The couple smiling
in their Autumn-best, lisianthus grasped
in remembrance of the decades missed,
trusting that seasons shift,
that movement is always forward.