Who would think it January?

Not the birds chatting eagerly

as they zoom from branch to branch,

not the tiny blue flowers,

newborn among the weeds,

and not I, warmed by sunshine

and emboldened by the wind. 

Together, we savor this slice of Spring

served so early in the year, 

the dead world stirring to life,

and I pondering the God 

who will not be dictated to 

by calendars.