The speaker has spent all day walking along the Monon, scanning for any sign that winter is letting go. So far the evidence is thin: some Kentucky bluegrass starting up a dormant poplar, a few purple flowers dotted across a crushed lawn. Then, finally, a single reward — a cardinal, which the poem calls “a preacher.” That word gives the sighting a small, joyful gravity, as if the bird’s red flash is a sermon or a blessing. Almost immediately, though, “a little cold rain fell.”
The mood is tender and expectant, with a quiet letdown at the end. The speaker seems to be searching for hope, and finds it only briefly in that vivid red bird before the chill returns. It’s a poem about how early spring gives and withholds, offering small flashes of color and then reminding you it isn’t quite done being cold yet.