Spring Sonata

Springtime, you always arrive so gently, as high school proms bring tears of friends who know they must soon part. I will try not to weep of fifty-six years ago, as I see the vision of my siblings, and I leap through sprinklers bright with rainbows, I promise, Spring, I won't cry. Spring sonata of the bird's songs, as I recall the natural wall of hydrangea blossoms of mint and powder blue in our backyard. Royal young roses so blushed on the white trellis. The Good Humor truck jingled down the street. Neighbor's children waved large wands with giant iridescent bubbles floating aloft to the envy of the cumulus clouds. Oh, springtide, you're our lively maiden with a honeysuckle crown. The presence of your rising moon monarch in the eve casting her silver cherish on weeping willows. You sail through the ages, but remain a debutante emerging from the gray of winter's waning. I promised springtime, I wouldn't cry, but my tears are healing. I dreamily walk by the modest little home on the sidewalk, the beloved place, the streets of my youth, spring sonata of my heart's song. I'm in no need of my walker- as I'm a child again. ~