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?”
The soul in this poem is a little like the child who, once it is promised something by the parent, doesn’t let the parent forget. How many times did I say that to my own parents growing up? “You promised!” So here it is the soul that has fallen into some winter doldrums and the self pulls the soul out of it’s funk by promising all the wonders of Spring, which, have never yet failed to come in good time.