Spring

Undoubtedly every poet has penned a piece on spring.

Rebirth is awe inspiring.

Sounds of tiny twittering in the trees

buzzing bees and droning flies

warm air filling the nostrils

with smells of sweetness flowering

and saturated colors now in bright array

transformed from grayish-brown.

 

The birth of the world must have been in spring.

The breath of life instilled,

a prelude to the struggle for existence

under the boiling summer sun

and the short respite of fall

before the deadly toll of winter

a circle complete year after year

for eternity.

 

And in the moment we become aware it’s spring

our hearts fill with waitful hope,

our steps enliven the way,

a smile for no thoughtful reason.

We forget the other times.

We forget that in that faraway war

a beloved son was slain

while his mother, here, unaware, smiled for spring.