When muddy footprints
cross the floor
they breathe of magic
held in store
of winter's end.
Warm days descend.
Soft breezes round
the sycamore
to linger at
my kitchen door
and buds unbend.
They form a verdant canopy,
a nesting place
for company
that swiftly blend
their noble notes in harmony
with brooklets
bursting to run free
to oceans end.

Sibyl M. Kellman

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-s-end/