I can hear the new grass growing.
Spring is softly stirring, throwing
off her downy coverlet,
that winter left all thin and wet

I can see the warm wind blowing.
Spring is whispering soft and low and
licking icicles to tears of
joy that trickle free and clear.

I can taste the sunlight tingling.
Spring is gath’ring dead wood, kindling
fires of fresh dreams in my flesh
and songs of starting in my breast.

I can feel the sweetness wafting
Spring is breathing scent aloft in
clouds, low slung with watery vows
that spring is almost here and now.

 

#77