In the constellation of trees, the branches
swing with spring music making
tribute. The empty spaces between the trees,
between the greening branches are
filling with fertile, green dust molecules.
The birds answer, telling of past
winter burdens; missed meals, long flights
attending to predators below. They call out
in bursts; sharing superiority. The trees'
music subsides into murmuring answers;
old tales of grief and longing.
A hundred different languages live,
whispering on the edge
of our days. Is their a universal sound
of hope, of birth, of love? I want to know.
I want to know; is Spring a world opening arms
or spreading wings and flying away?
Does each unexpressed, unfulfilled wish
close in a fist with the last light
breath of the day?
