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The aconites are withered -all are gone.
The last snowdrop doth droop its lonely head.
The moles do blindly burrow 'neath the lawn.
A bee appears ere February's fled.
The violets peep meekly from the shade.
The sky above the garden lilts with larks.
The trees, at last, burst forth with buds delayed.
Inside, the ladybirds creep from the darks.
The Spring reincarnates both life and soul.
The sun rejuvenates the mind, they say,
Enlight'ning spirits, making hearts more whole
By length'ning hours and minutes of the day.
But this sad heart will never be the same
When Spring arrives and softly breathes his name.

© Margaret Fisher, April 2009