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Come sit with me in the garden swing.
I must be outside, in search of spring.
Will the first robin now return,
and we observe his bob and run,
his comic search for wiggle worm?
Will crocus' cheeky eye pop skyward
through the last bit of snow
or hyacinths explode, in rich hues,
ablaze to unfold a fragrant glow?
Will the bluebird be building his lady
an intricate nest, or the early butterfly
betray the daffodil's dulcet rest?
Let us listen for the whisper of spring,
avid to uncover what she will bring.
Forsythia's soon to ignite in bloom,
shed its sunshine on winter's last gloom.
Narcissus and tulips grip with hot breath,
and beg us watch them pierce the earth.
Stroll with me down the garden path;
witness the cardinal's glad greeting
to southward friends, home at last.
Oh, don't be a sluggard, do come along;
we dare not miss spring's vernal song.