We would watch with eager eyes
Itching skins and deafening sighs
Till winter bids the sun to shine
And our blistering feet are fine
We would hope for something even
Perfect times like that of seven
Silver glints behind dark clouds
Stolen peeks beneath white gowns
From bitter creeks we’d sway
Within hopeful whifffs of May
To flowing ceaseless honey
The refreshing promise of glee.
We would wait till then
Till the little chick becomes a hen
Our backs will stand the whipping rain
With faith, for joy again.