I'm tired of winter

I went to bed layered and bundled against the cold,
but woke overdressed and over-warm.
Emerging from the house at an early hour
I found a spell had broken in the night,
releasing smells of warm rain and
things eager to grow and become.

I pursued the promise of a pink sunrise
and the raucous, raptured chatter of a thousand fearless birds.
As I ran, I composed a poem, enclosed in longing:
Please let this be the great awakening of Spring.

Within the hour:
Pink fizzled into gray and cold rain started in earnest.
The birds retreated from their joy.
Alone and wet in traffic-peppered silence, I revised my plea:
If not the first day of spring, can it at least be the end of winter?