Way back in February my soul was sad
so I promised her a day
when daffodils rise like periscopes.
I promised a day when old snow will try to hide
in the deep blue of impressionist-shadows,
I promised my soul birdsong,
buds swelling on bushes,
and letting the fire in the stove die back.
I promised her the smell of black earth,
and royal green moss
cushioning dripping ledges.
I said there would be silver mists
rising from hidden ravines
above dark stands of hemlocks.
And when my tinnitus whispered me awake today
there was my soul at the window,
turning and saying,
Isn’t this the day you promised?”