By Linda Conroy

In half-shade that signifies the close
of night I see the faded quarter- moon
poised mute above the faint skyline.
A silence of birds sits in winter pine.
The stillness of the dawn is tangible.
I sense her at a distance with no color yet,
no bark nor bang at eagerness’s window,
only an idling in the eaves. She slips
soundless over the backyard fence,
knowing that my hopefulness persists
even when the daffodils look gray
though they might wish to work
on glowing, as I do, it is too soon.
My blossoming comes later in the day.

Copyright Conroy 2017