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 still Am bound to sit and swing out there And 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 see The buds are on the almond tree. I'm sure it's spring. How do you know? I think a cricket told me so.