Dusk descends a little later every day,
morning brightens earlier,
promising another spring, new life, warmth
in the teeth of west winds
gusting to 60 miles an hour,
so the radio tells me and I
feel less wimpy about giving up
and turning toward home.
I see no sign of spring except
the promise implicit in lengthening days,
which will have to be enough to carry me
through the waning days of winter.