Alive

March, as they say, comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, and what a lamb! Sunshine and flowers and the babel of a thousand birds fill the world with the inevitability of Spring. It is my habit to love no one season in particular, but, rather, the season-that-is-to-come. So, I am exceptionally enamored with Spring at the moment, though I'm quite sure that when it has reached its fullness I'll be ever so ready for Summer.


Alive

The lengths of light are stretching out
to circumscribe the waking day
and ease the chill, incessant drought
that followed on the dreary grey

and dismal dusk, but now the grass
unbends and prospers on the lawn
and clouds that make a quiet pass
before the rosy-fingered Dawn

design a space to minister
a glimpse upon the sun's ascent
for eager folk who never were
so lively in their discontent

as now the frigid sleep has slipped
away and we awaken to
the goldenrods and thistles tipped
with coronets of morning dew,

and if we should persist to see
the slow decline returning, then
our solace and our hope will be
in life, enlivened once again.