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Poem

This is perhaps the most powerful day, 
early spring giving way to the main course, 
the trees hastily bursting their buds, 
blooming in reds, oranges and yellows - 
the reflection of the opposite season, 
now with the addition of white, 
white as the clouds above, 
which can't bring themselves to look like winter clouds anymore - 
they lie in the blue air 
watching the nymphs and pixies flit through the flowering trees, 
they ride high above lawn and pasture; 
clouds are the smiling souls of sheep, 
sheep from far off and long ago, 
remembering when they were lambs at play, 
now looking down upon the new fields, 
fields that bear witness to the raging torrent of unleashed energy - 
this is Mother Nature going all in, 
both her feet upon the accelerator of change, 
lighting the afterburners with one hand while making a fist with the other,
shaking it at Old Man Winter, 
just daring him to give it one more try before October, 
that next October when the grass will be tired, 
when the tone of light and the shade of sound slow down, 
when the clouds will remember how to look like they're in cold air.

For now, the grass shines into your mind - 
that's what tells you it's that powerful day of spring, 
that special green color, 
deeper, fuller, richer, vibrant and electrifying, 
it races to your eye and fills you. 
Mother Nature twirls in the upsurge of growth - 
she can hear it, and you can see it and smell it - 
and if you get close enough you can touch it, 
blade of grass, leaf of clover, 
and you're there with all the wee beasties of the yard and garden, 
feeling what spring really is - 
all life turning its face to the sun and jumping up and down.

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