Past the yellow forsythia bush 
And down the hill behind it
A rickety bridge spans a brook 
Running swift with winter’s thaw

A grove of birch trees appears beyond 
Just past the precarious crossing
With barks of paper and
Bursting buds of vivid lime

Beneath the trees lie newborn grasses 
A carpet of emerald green
Painted with graceful wildflowers 
Of lavender, lemon and pink

Lilting birdsong fills the air
Mamas hunting for their bairns
Who wait, not very patiently 
In their nests of twigs and fur

The earthy scent of an awakening world
Permeates the breeze
Morning sun shines dappled gold
Brings enchantment to the scene

A moss laden rock of granite 
Seems a perfect place to perch
To stop and sit and wait and watch 
Immersed in springtime splendor.