In a house full of moth-eaten books I have stayed indoors all winter long. I did not know of the blowing winds As I lay rediscovering my Frost; The relentless rain on my window Was lost to the words of Neruda.
But now February knocks on my door. The first tinge of green is on the branches. Do I hear the approaching footsteps Of what I think can only be spring? My soul is drunk with Rumi and Hafiz My heart is hungry for white hyacinths.