The melody of the
Singing birds,
Whether of sorrow
Or of sin,
The blinding lantern
Of morning,
The light we all
Are in.

The sweetened scent
Of blossoms,
The flowers being grown,
The beauty kept
Within them,
The world has yet to
Know.

The first day of spring,
From which all earth
Can see...
Is cold.
But
A leaf did tell me
That soon
The winds will sing
In their merriment,
And the bees
Are known to sting.
© All Rights Reserved