Morning is no longer silent
But filled again with birdsong;
So many different kinds—
Do they understand each other?
And blossoms puff themselves
Against the dominance of winter.
Their fragile fragrance hovers sweet,
Enriching stronger smells
Of new, wet earth
And growing grass
And resurrecting trees,
All released, spring-pin style,
By the rising of the sun.
And if it all succeeds in holding winter back,
The smells of hot asphalt and dusty bare feet,
Of freshly cut green grass
And mulched flower beds,
The teething motoring of mowers,
The cooling trace of misting droplets from a hundred sprinklers,
The child-high pitches for "Lemonade!"
Will fill the days again,
Under a sun-brightness
Tempered by summer shades.