Deaf are they who do not hear me –
For my aria carries on the air with that of the mistle thrush.
My laughter’s in cool crystalline streams which wash the hills.
My whisper is found in rippling and rustling grasses.

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Insensitive are they who do not feel me –
For mine are the soft fingers that brush your face 
And gently tousle your hair on warming breezes.
It’s I who make the daffodils dance wildly to my tune.

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Blind are they who do not see me -
Busily melting white snow on winter-worn hilltops;
Joyfully romping in the fields with the young lambs;
Stimulating new life, new growth and new hope.

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Didn’t you recognize me in quiet woodlands and country lanes?
Or in ploughed fields, cottage gardens and on river banks?
Yet it is I who lengthen the days and strengthen the sun.
Think too, of me as the gentle rain falls on the good earth.

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      See me, hear me, feel my touch - for I am Spring                    

                                                                       
 

Copyright on all my poems

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