On the Verge of Bright

Last night, we had no warning, none
about the hours to come, their hands
sneaking up to jump the minutes forward,
alert us to a change of time -- our new season
the days of light -- its emerald birdsong --
on the brink of bright, on the verge of warm.

Last night we forgot to watch the clock
mired, we were, in cold and drab
that pelt of rain and snow hit
hard upon the windows --

our doors shut so brusque and tight
that only dark snuck in,
wouldn't remind to set
the hour, think ahead --

think of robins -- their trill of shine --
doves, the goldfinches
ready to shed their overcoats
all heavy, burly brown
in wait for lemon sweaters of silk
so honey-smooth, so gilded-soft.