A clear March night, and to me every star
Is sneaking in its Quiet, winking way.
The gates of Heaven have been left ajar
So each bright smiler might come out to play.
Resplendent, yes, but futile–is it like
The One who planned this universe to fail
To find a purpose for their nightly hike;
To let them blink like that to no avail?
I cannot Quite believe it, so I cast
About the sparkled meadow of the sky,
Convinced there is an answer; and, at last,
My patience is rewarded for its try:
They’re living dots and dashes, swift-sent Morse
To tell me that the spring is here–of course!
by Ray Romine Thursday, January 27, 1944
