Damp, dead.
Springing to life under muddy soil,
The flowers will be here soon.

Skeletal branches claw the milky blue-purple sky,
Green mist beginning to coat their splitting fingers.

Biting cold and wisping wind,
The smell of wet earth and greening grass
More welcome than a smoking, fiery hearth.

Spring is coming, spring at last;
I had almost forgotten the taste of rain in the air.

Stone beneath my fingers, rough and smooth,
A rock in a field to rest against with a beautiful view.

The wind whispers the calling of birds
And the echoing cries of their mates,
The aviation coming north for a long stay.

My hair is whipped by the wind,
And flies from my face;
Fly away far,
Find your own flowing, rippling, grace.

Ice is cracking and rivers rushing,
Freed from their frozen imprisonment;
Fish are swimming and fishermen soon to be rowing
Across still waters clear and cold.

April has come to Michigan once more,
Breaking dawn in morning's cool air.
April returned to drive back the snow,
And Spring Break rides on its dove grey wings.