Spring, where young men's fancy turns lightly to thoughts of poetry
Her laugh splinters into golden fragments
And falls blooming in the grass
The first daffodils of spring
She lays beside them
Her hair is the earth
Her eyes are the sun
Shining on the daffodils.
~ DRF
"It's half-past spring!" she cries,
Stirring the rich earth,
"Time to get up, sleepyheads!"
Hearing her, the bulbs roll over
Stretch out roots
Poke green fingers through the surface.
New seeds burrow down,
Quivering with fresh life
Impatient to blossom.
Trees shiver, trembling blinking branches
And arch into the sun.
~ WG
Poetry is the art of listening
Until the world whispers words;
Or looking until you find them
Tangled in the clean clothes,
Spilled across the kitchen floor
Growing in the sidewalk cracks.
~ PBS