The branch at bud point,
lightly bears the warbler’s weight,
shakes free of frost,
and offers a blossom peek
to the sun.
Winter’s run it’s damp course,
the blue that matters most
reclaims the sky, the song,
the long awaited chirp,
and twitter, rules the air.
I’ve seen this sixty times or so,
the promise held, the crocus
smile, the smell of roots
and ambitious dirt
turning the earth vibrant.
Spring forward, back
to life, a calendar theme.
Resurrection palatable,
plausible, yet
extreme.
The worm’s eye view
tells us more.
There’s truth below ground
the clouds envy.
He is risen, in deed.
