At yon boundaries are shrubs,
Waiting like unlit chapel bulbs,

Under are flowers also plugged,
Within wet soil, grabbing waters,

Rains once pelted withal seeds,
Into the skies they both breathe,

Under earth, worms wriggle up,
Graduating in swirls to the sun,

On blankets of grass are daisies,
Wildly napping a dreamy breeze,

Thrushes in rushes joyfully sing,
Lilt of lullabies from skies begin,

Songbirds dropping windy hues,
The giddy butterflies justly knew,

What bees do bounces, busy for,
Such patchwork paradise galore.

As children, in this springtide of the year,
my two brothers and I would venture deep
into our woods, exploring all that had thawed.

Walking along, there was little need for talk,
absorbed as we were in the scents and sights
of lovely nature, awakening all around us.

Following a line from the artesian well that fed our home,
we listened for signs of an undiscovered, woodland stream.

There, we heard it. That secret, lovely gurgle, somewhere
hidden under soggy brown, deciduous leaves.

Excitedly, we used sticks of hickory and oak
to dig down, to free the living water.

Once we had found it, clear and singing,
we leaned in, working together to ease its path.

Time disappeared from our minds,
this self-appointed team of junior engineers.

Somehow, though we wouldn't have known it then,
that freshly springing water was life itself to us
surging forth once more, finding,
like each of us, its own way home.

Now I understand, remembering
our common sense of purpose,
the way we worked together,
with single-minded focus, why
freeing it really mattered to us,
mattered so very much,
and always will.