This is not headline news, no more than a ghaspy whisper was uttered when I came upon life coming to life- there in the tiny fragile stems supporting the first minute leaves of what is to be nourishment by Easter time- comes a hopeful sign.
This is no silent spring, pray we never know that kind of solitude- the birds have gathered to join in the chorus-
Everywhere and under there, come the signs, the songs, the assurance of hopeful days, stacked up-one after another, of newness and freshness and alive- be alive. And the poet in me awakens, refreshed- "March then, drink!" I say.
Hear the chirps -a liquid language of the feathered things, feel the lightness of sunlit rays, smell the scent of rot and decay made new in the black dirt's soily perfume. Look there in the last light of this new day, how beautiful it is to behold, how wonderful to acknowledge-
all is well...