Blossoms speak to the air.
The first thin bees rouse from winter’s spell,
As Beauty from her briar-girt bed,
To scuffle tigerishly in the crocus cups.
Beneath the boggy lawn, water sprints
In audible exuberance, eager to be moving,
Rushing for the bottom land
Where the willows and the black haws wade.
The earth is opening to the rains, to the returning
Love of the Sun, stroked into green ecstasy.
And we are close as twins now, my blood beats with hers,
Rising like the maple sap that drips, drips, into the sugar buckets,
And shoots, a savage fire, to the tough red buds.
The trees burst with being, with ancient green-flaming life.
The door of the Equinox stands ajar.
Spring turns the year’s heavy wheel.