This poem signals the end of possibly the longest writer's block I have ever heard of: twenty-eight years. I was apprenticed to a writer in the New York area at age eighteen, and wrote stories for (shudder) True Confession magazines. My heart wasn't in it, and after the first five rejections I stopped trying to publish anything. But I never stopped writing, mostly erotic poetry, and always about subjects that touched my heart, my passion. I wrote "Waiting for Spring" on a white, cold January day when my heart was as cold as the day through the lace, waiting for a spring thaw, outside, and in my heart. I hope this gives some insight to those reading the poem.