Seasons don't wait

Its strange to sit
and watch spring emerge,
to see the land wake
from it's long sleep,
when everything is at its brightest,
most beautiful and alive,
bursting with a vigour,
a rush,
an invisible pulsating force.
Its strange to sit
on the park bench
amid this incongruity
between the inner and the outer
when the heart
still endures
its own impossible winter.
Still imprisoned,
slightly frozen,
struggling to free itself
from the surrounding ice floes.

I watched two red winged black birds
playing like children,
tumbling through the air,
while the children themselves
laughed
and clapped their chubby hands,
faces turned upward
toward the blinding, perfect sun,
The bottoms of their little feet
stained by the greenest,
perfect grass.

These seasons,
just keep spinning
on the never ending wheel of time and history,
yet out of time completely,
only respecting the natural course of things,
over and over again.

They are no respecter of persons.

They don't wait for me to catch up,
or for my pain to recede,
before the jubilant display unveils itself,
and I am left sitting on the bench,
confused at so much joy.

The seasons wait for no one.

But this wont stop me from watching,
as if through the window of a cold room
which I am not allowed to leave,

for the time being.