The very Spring that blows its warm breath upon my rough-wintered face,
The Spring that sends its honey-sweet dew into our souls to embrace
The woven threads of our being to warm the frigid winter’s work.
The new Spring, the one that gives hope in lieu of winter’s cold, dark murk.
Hope in flowers blooming in the fields of white
Amidst the snow and strife is the fresh pallor of the Spring’s light.
The very word brings birdsong to my ears and soft rains to my eyes.
Here, the Spring, is where my weary mind but renewèd soul resides.

So why, O Spring , are you so late in your waking?
And tell me, why, O why, do you insist on taking
Only the far longest route to return to me?
For I am waiting and I wish for Spring to be.