Springtime in New York

Not a Frank Sinatra song
but the end of a long
aggravating assault 
of snowplows on asphalt. 

Last week the tree limbs
were in their winter grim.
Now tiny yellow-green tufts, 
infant fists in the strong sun.

Soon tulips and daffodils
forsythia and jonquils.
Visitors video squirrels
and buy dozens of bagels. 

Tourists form rolling roadblocks
on all the midtown sidewalks
the normal New Yorkers pace
stymied with a whispered curse. 

In Central Park the sentries
of white weeping cherry trees
remembering a Shinto shrine
whisper something of the divine. 

Not a Frank Sinatra song
but the season that sings
us out of hibernation
to remember resurrection. 

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Images from my iPhone.