
spring
it must have sprung open
the first crocus morning
as dawnbirds were woken
a magic flute wind
curled round a new bud
his panpipe calling sprouts,
immersed in beds of mud
fresh blades ascend
from clay below the glades
electron-sparked
ion-dazed
the unabashed sun heats the wetlands
and sap bleeds clear thru the tree
pushing a million tiny births
in bursts of gentle green

