The first song of Spring
through drips icy arrives,
a lone bird for one that’s alone in it bringing
the seed of expansion which stillness so hides.
Hard is the bud where leaves lie in slumber
as all of us dwellers still inwardly bide,
listening, there, the bud in its slumber
to the first song of spring, expecting its flight.
“Sing to me, Spring, the seed of expansion,
for winter in silence must too one day end
and all must emerge from its still sharp embrace
which life doth protect from harshness and death.”