A gardener is caught off guard by an early thaw. She expected February to bring snow, as it always did in her memory, but the weather turns warm enough for a sleeveless shift. Almost impulsively, she pockets seeds, drags out bins of soil, and sets small pots in the light. The gesture is hopeful but not naive. She knows this springlike spell may be a trick—April-like planting done too soon can still be ambushed by random frosts. The repeated “spring springs” gives the season a sudden, almost mischievous energy, while “unawares” keeps the sense of being taken by surprise. The mood is tender and watchful: a small act of faith balanced by the knowledge that cold can return.
Spring Springs — Summary
Spring springs upon her unawares; Perhaps she thought snow would drift Right up to her window, as it should In February, as in her memory No such month escaped some white.
Going forth in a sleeveless shift She pockets up seeds for flats, Pulls out dank bins of soil, Reaches for small pots, sets hope In light. Such April ploys are Not to be counted on, she knows -- Guessing random frosts Still may spring upon her unawares.