There's a magic
about the springtime.
It pretends to be new
full of rebirth
.but it is not.

Even the Ancient maples
Bursting in Bud and syrups
Hangs fat with knowledge
Full to the brim  of memories.

The returning starlings
Knowing where they live.
Cry a crescendo of yesterday.

Sometimes as the moon glows
On forgotten pathways
in my garden.
I hear their secrets
I see their memories

And the ice grip of winter
Is melting in my heart.
And I see you
Once more visiting Springs song.
The light of  my heaven
Beneath a blossoming tree.