Spring in the Meadow
By Elece Hollis
The treetops show a palest green.
The iris fronds point straight and clean.
The daffodils nod in between
The earth and sky.
The air above is slate-grey blue;
It shines with very different hue
Than golden warm when robins flew
South in the fall.
The grass appears about to burst
Forth from the ground whose long cold thirst
Is sated now with the fresh first
Swells of spring rain.
Under the mat of last year’s grass
Bright flowers struggle up to pass
Through to the sun’s warm rays at last
From winter’s night.
Spring has not arrived, but come,
Like Papa from a journey home,
Calls from the soil, calls from the loam
“I’m almost there!”