Ode to Spring

Following in the far distant footsteps of Keats, I present my Ode to Spring. Keats, ironically, died in Rome (not NY but Italy, of course, but still).

To Spring

A spring dawns bright with skies of sapphire hue;
the sun presents itself with watery rays,
a promise of the golden power due
as morning grows into the warmest days.
Windchimes present the saucy songs of spring
with gentle nudge from pollen-laden breeze.
A gust, a snap of winter not yet passed:
a bit of snow to melt, a springtime sneeze.
Just hints of what the season'll often bring:
A pretty bonnet; listen ~ church bells ring,
as we give praise and hope the warmth will last.

On grass so green as to make Ireland proud,
a robin frolics with a mallard duck;
the geese have passed on their return, so loud!
The rain brings worms for early birds, what luck.
The energies abound, they overflow
like streams from melting ice do swell the banks
and lakes and rivers run to swiftly meet.
The first of April brings the happy pranks,
the fun and joyful tease of those who know
that laughter helps the winter blues to go
and smiles in springtime always are so sweet.

It's time to say hello, as days grow long,
to daffodils and tulips on the stem,
to peepers as they sing their morning song;
as we awake, we smile and sing with them.