Yet another slow spring themed poem. I can't help it. I draw poems from experience and when this is what I see everyday, then I must deal with it.

The earth is a blank page
waiting for spring
to write the season on it.

It's happening now.
Water splashes on everything
like ink from the sky.

Soon the pages will fill
with grass strokes & leafy paragraphs,
worm letters will wriggle in the mud
& mushrooms punctuate everything.

I have nothing to say
that can compare with this.
So I watch & am filled, too.

Sitting on our south-facing balcony, I wrote this in the full sun, soaking in the warmth. I can't describe how wonderful it feels to be outside without a coat, even if the shadow were still frozen. The sun filled me...