Swing

It's too soon for the front porch swing.

No crocuses are opeing.

The wind is from the north and chill.No matter. Spring is here. I stillAm bound to sit and swing out thereAnd feel it in the evening air.

It's much too cold. The trees are lean

And leafless—not a sign of green.

It's foolishness to sit outside.The mockingbird has testified To spring's existence, and I seeThe buds are on the almond tree.I'm sure it's spring.

How do you know?I think a cricket told me so.