Crisp morning breeze blows
Yet the clouds seem fixed and still;
Pine trees speak the wind.

Robins in the field
Have a universe to peck;
Just where to begin?

Buds against the sky
Soon to form a canopy;
Now just bide their time.

Rigid gray stone saint
Presides over the flowers--
(Maybe the reverse).

Dead leaf among buds
Is not ready to let go;
The wind will decide.



Luminescent leaves
Sprinkled all over the woods
Mark the march of spring.

Swooping from nowhere
The large hawk dips, glides and floats
Raking the shadows









Surrounded by wire
The yellow plant stands alone:
Caged forsythia.