And now the buds emerge ...
They linger on edges
Unable to touch
The gliding raven
Soaring overhead.
They tint the forest
With their palette.
Lime, lemon, rose,
Flavoring the air
With possibility.
They whisper sweet
Promises of hope,
Rebirth,
Longings satisfied,
Unfolding magic.
They embody months
of long darkness.
Snowstorms
and rain alike
Nurtured their growth.
Now they fling themselves
Impatiently,
Recklessly,
With graceful abandon,
Into the light.
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