Snow and March

February snow keeps coming,
now wet and heavy. 
Birdsong in the mornings
crowding at the thistle seed in afternoons. 
Is there hope?

In lent, hope lies dormant.
In the waning of the winter, search for hope
but in lent, hope is feeble,
like the last days of winter, part slush part ice.

Hope lies ahead, but not yet.
Around the corner, yet not seen.
In the song of some cardinals and junkos,
not in robins.
Geese everywhere around the river,
honking and beating their wings into the water. 
Coming or going or just here? 

More days until the birth of hope, and hunger lies close;
a sun that sets later and later each night.