Sweet spring.
She sits in the palm of our hands
for days on end; a week maybe
sweating the trees
and greening the grass -
Buds of mysterious like
appear slowly on the dark branches
of the trees
daffodils bloom,
and bees tend to awaken -
and then. She leaves.
Coldness, and bitter rain -
falls down on the half – budded trees
freezing their children
and slashing their bloom -
beheading the daffodils and
punishing the grass.
The coldness lingers -
her clouds on the distant horizon
gray as death on a gravel street.
And then. She is back.
Warm spring air, wafting through
the newly brightening sky...
The songbirds appear in the trees;
those the days before had found barren,
and they sing their lullabies
and their sugary songs
which matches the taste
of pollen upon the air -
as the buzzing of bees
comes alive again.
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