The weather may not realize it quite yet, but we are of a mind for spring. After this harsh winter, it was a long time coming. I know we may not be quite done, but it won’t hurt to get our minds right. There are signs all around us. The birds are starting to return, the buds on the trees and crocuses are beginning to show. A week has passed and we have surely been inspired by the sights, sounds and smells of spring. Spring ahead with your best seasonal poems celebrating the demise of the winter doldrums.



Winter holds animus,
She refuses to depart
to allow Spring to start.

We languish in her grip,
slipping on her icy floor
& more snow than we’ve needed.

We’ve pleaded for an end,
offering to send her
on the vacation of choice.

But inside our heads, her voice;
a sinister laugh and taunt
and howling winds that haunt

and toss us, to boss us
into cowering here
where it should be flowering.

There's no sign of Spring.
Come prove you don’t hate us
and end your hiatus.

© Copyright Walter J Wojtanik 


  1. Hesitant Seasons

    hesitant seasons are
    teasers of the soul
    long and deliberate
    unmerciful jerks
    with bully intentions that do not cease
    like poems without pause
    or space or punctuation
    un-indentedly mean
    deep down to the heart
    twisting longings within us
    pinching desires while they rant
    at our tears that pour from
    imagined or remembered skies
    in our eyes–
    but wait…there’s rhyme in there,
    rhyme rises, the rhyme,
    and a comma appears, when light
    peeks out, one morning,
    and the past is silhouetted
    like alliteration, and pause appears

    unnecessary space,
    like a brightness, like new hues
    and then, with a stirring we feel,
    COMES the new season,
    that old friend we longed to see,
    the need of a hurting heart is balmed
    … alas, and sighs,
    the abandonment of whys
    and doubt!
    A new time comes about!

    © Damon Dean 2023


    As drops of fog meet banks of snow
    I walk the battlefield. My slow
    progress seems fitting here; there’s no
    felt need to press for speed when cold

    and damp and mud conspire to scold
    the one who hurries. Why be bold
    in any case? The times of old
    sufficed for that, and left a chill

    where life once was. Now, all is still.
    The strangeness here is palpable.
    The living here are rendered nil:
    memorialized in stones and mounds

    where people died upon these grounds;
    where soldiers screamed before the sounds
    of canister’s relentless rounds;
    a fitting place for shrouding cloud.

    I trudge the ridge where death is proud,
    but then I turn to something loud:
    some grackles in a clattering crowd
    are skittering on the little floes

    of ice bequeathed by winter’s snows.
    This is no time to be morose.
    I cackle in glee, in tune with those
    who lift the fog and melt the snow.

  3. Spring

    S uch a relief to have survived the winter
    P eople out and about in the sunshine
    R obins making their grand entrance
    I nspiration in every tulip and daffodil
    N eeding snow to go away and be
    G one.

  4. Sparrows Dance

    on a patch of brown grass
    where snow has melted.

    They dance and flutter
    between branches
    of shrubbery outside my window
    and disappear.

    They dance in the sky so blue
    it can make me cry
    for the coming spring
    where once again
    life is new.

    Sparrows sing
    as the sun breaks
    through clouds
    when the sky is
    an ocean of dreams.

    Flowers break free
    from dormant ground
    as they burst forth
    from seeds.

    Sparrows dressed
    in browns and grays
    as I awaken
    stir hopes
    of what my life can become.

  5. Almost April

    The gloom of winter is nearly now gone,
    but summer still sleeps,
    not quite ready for her big entrance.
    This is spring, and she’s still young,
    so, satisfied, we capture
    bits of today’s breezy brilliance,
    enlivened by the simple pleasure of it all,
    grateful for this good day.

    It might actually be a good day,
    nothing too grand, nor magical,
    simply a few hours of quiet enjoyment,
    some idle conversation with the neighbors,
    a sisterly Sunday phone call on the patio,
    cheered by the crisp sunlight of late March,
    hands shielding eyes against the glare,
    smelling the ocean in the thin clouds,
    as the last of the foothills snow melts.

    Melting snow cannot mute
    the hopeful sounds of passersby,
    as baseball season is upon them,
    the dark days of busted brackets behind,
    still a rosy outlook for the local heroes,
    not yet time for clever analysis,
    of what went wrong this time.
    There’ll be time later for the reality of defeats,
    their shadows eclipsing summer’s bright sun.
    Today is a time for hope.


    every season
    has a reason
    an embedded gem

    carrying forward the wheel
    each unique feel
    like a silent mystical hymn

    without all four turning
    how to satisfy our yearning
    to find that mighty balance

    it is in their own motion
    we find the commotion
    and give it every chance

    whether summer, fall, winter or spring
    it’s what they usher in and bring
    we somehow align with that

    shedding heavier winter clothes
    fast as we can, heaven knows
    wind comes back, grab the hat

    thank goodness the cycles come and go
    sometimes too fast or frighteningly slow
    trusting they will appear

    helps keep us high on our watchful toes
    keeping us aware and attuned, I suppose
    always prepared, too, never to fear

    if it’s too cold, breezy and chilly
    it will warm up nicely in a dilly
    it’s nature’s real true insurance

    and if you’re far too hot
    and you’d much rather not
    next turn of the season, reassurance

    (c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2023

  7. Something from prompt 329:

    Spring in the Panhandle

    It’s never really ever winter here
    Like where I grew up in Northern Maine
    In Florida it’s spring and then summer
    Then fall, and fall, and fall again

    It seems the trees are quite confused
    One day they’re full, the next they’re bare
    The slightest wavering of the temperature
    Makes these stupid trees shed everywhere

    We rake the leaves in late January
    Then the trees grow new leaves once more
    In February the winds blows chilly
    And more leaves pile outside our door

    It warms, and again we raked them
    New spring leaves will take their place
    Then the temperature might dip to forty
    Now they’ll fall at an accelerated pace

    In March we rake them up again
    Hoping in April on the trees they will stay
    But if we happen to get a weird cold snap
    We’ll be raking them again in May

  8. Skirting the Edges Of March

    Spotted on white fence,
    the scarlet coat
    of a cardinal. Some
    brave purple crocus
    push through
    the earth. Fragile
    daffodils in bloom,
    now sway in a chill
    wind. Miniscule buds
    tentatively make
    an appearance on
    the tips of the
    Japanese maple. This
    is the time of year
    we walk on tip-toes
    skirting the edges
    of March, hoping
    April will see us
    into spring.


    Summer bears the demise of her waning strength.
    Fallen from grace—she stiffens for the expectant blows
    of autumn’s push.

    The once plush greenery of the day is now a rush of rainbow.
    A hoard of hues race toward the shame of muted browns.

    Down, down, down to the ground—humbled, once
    again, where it all began. Hidden beneath blankets of
    rich somber soil.

    She falls for the cruel lullabies of winter’s cold spell.
    Asleep in the bed—she dreams of the freedoms of silk

    Of being freed from mediocrity; the slavery of grays,
    into the distinctness of emerald born blues, and the
    brightness of sun-filled craze.

    Coiled…She lay drunk in the wine of dreams—but
    it seems that her slumber has slackened off.
    The buds have yawned. The turtle dove has sung.

    The resonant sounds of spring has sprung from the deep.
    Another day has dawned—no longer to keep the night watch.

    Her wings have woken with the chorus of every living thing.
    It’s the gift that keeps on giving, and giving,
    and giving—it is the gift of spring.

    ©️ Benjamin Thomas

  10. From the South

    You watch for a single line
    drawn across parchment sky
    a minimal strokes in India ink
    horizontal wings
    (no flared tips, no backswept arch)
    legs a single swipe behind
    streamlined body
    stiletto bill extended neck

    the Great Blue Heron returned
    to the borrow pit beyond the river
    coming in for landing
    coasting the sky
    and on his back

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