They're No Longer Buds

Forsythia now;
Petals strewn about the walk.
Bugs tickle my eyes.












They're no longer buds;
They are bursting baby leaves
Urged on by the sun.









Shadows, like the sun,
Fall gently on the soft lawns,
Make not a ripple.

The streams are muted;
Lone clover pops up its head.
Spring comes with hushed sounds.









Christmas ornament
Shining in the April sun.
(Some things never change).










White flowers blooming
From a broken dying tree
Lie close to the ground.

A distant jet hums
Fading swiftly out of sound.
U P S puffs by.









From the dead brown leaves
Bright purple flowers pop up.
From the house, kids drum.