When trees in morning March winds sway
it’s different from November’s gray,
those heavy pessimistic skies
which dormancy or death belie.
In March, with Spring’s rebirth in sight,
the treetops stretch toward Life, they fight
off stiffness, Winter’s coat they shed.
From deep below their sap is led
to flow, to course. How they rejoice –
with dancing limbs their find their voice.
They won’t sleep now – they’re wide awake.
Their thirst for growth with light they’ll slake.
And I, who sit beneath and watch,
as one who might a fever catch,
am caught myself and share their thrill –
Life finds its way, and always will.
At top: Butterfly on dandelions. Wikipedia photo.
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