The season of seasons, this season, unseen.
All around, the green, the jade and emerald
jewels of leaves and buds burst with life,
out of sight. Sunlight blesses sullen earth,
raises tendrils, like the green fingers
of soiled hands in prayer,
to greet it with a drowsy wave.
The frowsy days drift by.
Birds bicker and palaver in trees.
These we see, though from afar,
from a distance as safe for them
as for us. They twitter and breathe
unexpected air, drink sweeter water,
purer and clearer than they have known
before. People prisoned by the present
that we do not wish to give
do not see the glory of the season
that carries on without our attention.
It carries on, free of us, unseen, unsung.
Spring is sprung.