Like to the bird that singeth
    To woo a ***** make,
I sing; and yet it bringeth
    Upon my throat an ache.

For one who cannot hear me
    Is one for whom I sing:
I sing for one not near me
    Of loneliness and spring.

^ ^

Attentive student of the songs of birds,
    No beakèd beast hath e'er more sweetly trill'd
A pair of notes or call'd in major thirds
    Or minor with musicality more skill'd.
Adaptive linguist, practic'd in the tongue  
    Of wingèd feather'd creatures, thou hast writ
Into "The Birdsong Songbook" songs unsung
    By birds which yet harmoniously fit.
And though the book began in higher throats
    Diversely tun'd by Nature's artful hand
Ere measur'd were the times and tones of notes,
    (Which often rest them now upon a stand),
Its finest lines (o'er which I now do rave)
Witness thy penmanship on every stave.

^ ^

Where daffodils
Perfume the breeze,
And chirps and trills
Concert the trees,
And nectar spills
From mouths of bees,
I find my thrills,
My fun, my ease.
And though it ills
I rather please
To take green hills
With allergies.
Benadryl pills?
No thanks: I’ll sneeze.

^ ^

In semitones it sang its morning song:
With perfect intonation did it sound
Each pitch-pure shaft of tone to richly confound
The staccato, choppy, chirpy, cheepy throng.
After this phrase of notes sung clear and strong,
A cadence-closing burst of trill unwound,
Shaken out taut and cinching, fast and round,
That lasted to the pure tones doubly long.
More beautiful singing I have never heard,
And yet was I inclined to doubt its worth.
I silenced my mind and listened to the earth,
And this was in the singing of the bird:
If all the world will be the way it is,
Be thankful for the bird that sings like this.

^ ^

.
        A dandelion-yellow chick
        Lately has lost her smooth white cap
        With edges chipped out tap by tap
And peck by peck and tick by tick.

        She moves with careful steps between
        Her mother's not-too-careful strides,
        And with a careless foot collides,
And falls (kerplunk!) sans any teen.

        Today as small as a mother wren,
        She'll soon outsize a mother dove,
        Then shortly after will she prove        
A natural mother—a mother hen.
        
^ ^

Give 'em a try, and feel the rush!
    Virility and skittish flight
Are pent up in their potent taste—
    Like a billion bunnies in a bite!

^ ^

Bouncing, boundless butterflies,
Bouncing in the balmy breeze,
Bouncing in the boundless skies,
Bounce between the brown-barked trees,
Bounce on by the bumble bees.

Buzzing, zipping bumble bees,
Buzzing in the zesty skies,
Buzzing in the zesty breeze,
Buzz into the butterflies—
Bumping—making butterbees.

^ ^

.
           A thatched and wicker basket-nest
           Cradles a cluster bright and new
           And delicate and coolly blue,
With speckled royal freckles blessed.

           The cherry blossoms pink the trees.
           A snowy fall of tiny white
           And quickly flipping petals light
Into an errant summer breeze.

           Diffusely, prodigally blows
           A heavy ******-like scent,—
           The lilac's prized accomplishment,—
The greenest envy of the rose.

           And everywhere I idly walk
           I see, in all the lightened notes
           And whited tones and frosted coats,
The springtide paints that mix with chalk.

^ ^