Softly the heads of flowers poke
From underneath the soggy ground.
They do not fear the March time smoke
Or springtime rains; they make no sound.
The buds on trees are white and red,
The grassy shoots are green and bright,
The newborn fawns and rabbits tread
With gentle paws, hidden from sight.
Yet on occasion, from the trees,
They venture forth with cautious glance.
The gardens and the orchards please
Their eager mouths: they take their chance!
Then just as quick, with urgent hops
To shaded grove they scanter back:
To gather up their first young crops
The men have come with pail and sack.
But we have jumped ahead of time!
Tis not midsummer yet, I think!
The sun has not prolonged her climb
Nor yet have buds had their first blink.
The hail and sun trade places still,
While gray clouds gather and disperse.
The sunset streaks across the hill
And golden rays the trees immerse.
From their deep dens coyotes cry
And elk wander over the field.
As darkness mingles with the sky,
Grandly the full moon is revealed.
So spring’s soft night engulfs this land
Of simple homes, of one small town;
Offers her sweet, nurturing hand
To birth again what men have sown.
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