Hues of brittle, grey, brown and beige
Branches without dressing
Petrified remnants of last summer's flowers
Leftover in cracked clay pots.
Muddy, dusty pathways
Through yellowed grass in slumber
The forest lays in waiting ...
Fatigued from winter passed
Me and March wait-
Impatient with anticipation and wanting.
And then it will begin ...
Tender bursts of brilliant green
Will sing a new refrain
And herald the revival of life
This technicolour revue we call
S p r i n g.
And I can't wait!