Ode to Spring at Sunrise, March 16, 2015

I'll make of this day an idea,
And carry it all in my head,
To keep it alive in the future,
And live with it until I'm dead.

The birds are all singing for springtime,
Announcing the warm rising sun,
To dance through the azure blue welkin,
And set in the pink when it's done.

Oh, God! Is that bird sweetly singing?
Has the icy cold winter blast passed?
Will the gentle day last slightly longer
After the gentle day's past?

I'll catch up this day in a poem,
Like a bird in a living room caged.
I'll store it in pints in the cellar,
When next winter's cold blizzards rage.

The crescent moon morning is fifty.
The afternoon sun seventy-three.
The sun will arise in an hour
And pour out its blessings on me.

I'll breathe in the breezes of springtime
And feel the warm sun on my face.
I'll dance to the songs of the robins
And thank the Lord for heaven's grace

That breaks the hard sod of the winter
And softens the ground's frozen stone
To resurrect lilies in springtime
And fill the air with sweet cologne.

I'll mourn now the passing of winter,
I'll cry for the passing of death.
With folded hands silently whisper
A yizkor at winter's last breath.

But, oh! At the breaking of morning,
Now at the rising of sun,
I'll put off this poem till later
And sing at the breaking of dawn

With birds that are calling out, "Springtime!"
As I watch the sun rise o'er the east,
And store this idea in this poem,
To save for a winter's day feast.

When death's icy cold fingers catch me,
And hold me in winter's strong grasp,
I'll remember the dawn of this moment
And remember that sorrow can't last.

The dawn is now calling me, reader.
Now! the rising of sun! I can't stay!
Just remember in coldest dark winter,
There will come todays like today.