So what’s all the fuss about spring?
What’s so special?
A baby rabbit?
Two ears, couple of pairs of legs,
bit of fur
(soft as a whisper of starlight,
grey as a cobweb,
trusting...)
So what’s all the fuss about spring?
What’s so special?
Buds on the trees?
Well, what else do you expect;
leaves have to start somewhere
(flicks of enchanted sunlight,
warm as a baby’s cheek,
tender...)
So what’s all the fuss about spring?
What’s so special?
A flower?
A breakable blob on a stalk;
gone in a day or two
(and a bee in a frenzy,
enfolded by paper-light gaiety
holding the seed,
the promise...)
So what’s all the fuss about spring?
Just a rabbit, some buds and a flower;
so what’s so special?
Only a trusting, a tenderness
and a promise...
(March,
1977)
