I await springtime,
and the spreading of fresh dreams,
over weathered earth.
Winter\'s malignant spell
has frozen life\'s flow.
I anticipate the hour
of the leveret
and the lamb on verdant hills;
when trees finally
flourish with vibrant flesh pink
and milk white blossoms.
In springtime, the light returns
and transmogrifies
things. Young lovers hold hands. They
walk through bright streets and
avenues, like dreamers, in
madrigal measure.
Even in old bones, the pith
is stirred; a deeper
purpose is then rekindled.
So, I await the
warm miracle, that starts to
stir under snow in
late winter, when the birds\' sweet
singing is rare: the
slow, wondrous unfolding of
beauty within a
little, green bud in that primed
season of rebirth;
exemplified by Easter.