When spring drops at the flick of the world’s wrist,
and colors whirl in kaleidoscopic, 
impressionistic hues with views
of greens gold as the pond powdered with pollen, 
and golds green as the glittering hummingbird’s back,
buds bursting with hard candy 
sprinkled from sky’s blue gingham pockets,
breast quivering, shimmering
inside her seasonal tenses,
presently accounting for 
all this grandeur,
speckled and freckled and stippled,
like the nippled branches of trees 
unfurling their ribbons of leaves
tasting like Snapple green apple,
like lemon-lime soda,
like absinthe in Paris 
in the springtime, I fancy
all the world’s a-fizz 
with fuzzy wings buzzing
with gossip, with bird call, 
with the dapple and babble
of dawn.
And I’m here,
bearing witness
to the many-splendored blessings
from which this morning flows.