wantering

Of course, no promises were made in words;
it’s more a matter of belief
that the planet will revolve
around the Sun, and gradually
our countryside will be inclined—
literally—
in such a way that we
and all the ice and snow,
thereafter, grass and flowers
and trees and bees and birds
and wintered doggy turds
will melt and go and feel and glow
and grow.
But still amid the promises
of these bright hard days
bestrewn with lingering snowbergs
and gardens shrouded in accumulated gray crust,
we see lush vivid photos of Vangroovy,
months ahead and,
mired in our post-winter wantering,
green ourselves instead.