And why the birds are telling me can’t be denied,
I am their tree with root’s reality embedded in my
mind; it’s Spring they say, - and while we cannot
see the growth as yet its in their hormone’s whet
which blades those branches separately; voices
chorus in a guest of temperance which we have
learned to voluntary bless; your song is better of
the now I praise - altho’ the chill still lingers yet
The sun determines when we sing they cry, & in
its rising earlier makes each day an opportunity;
with time to spare we’ll feast in plenitude you’ve
bet as chance of luck with song to feed a brood
we’ve yet to sire; be my guest I eulogise, that is
what breasts within the rites of Spring
© 18 July 2016, I. D. Carswell
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