Spring is a surgeon longed for . . . addressing a patient’s pain.

We sit in the waiting room bored by flipping through dog-eared winter days. The freshness of fine snow now a greenless gray.

There is a sound so silent only the thawing ground hears it. Coming up surely, proudly, defiantly — the green blades appear and winter begins her crying.

Oh she may howl and make us shiver when friendless she breaths her last.

Then the landscape morns as out of her death spring is born.

Our winter coats get pushed to the side — when the spring knives cut through — green wins more each day — our gardens become our recovery rooms.

And we start eyeing our summer shoes.