by Irene Conway

She stands on the hill
In the early spring dawn
And ponders her journey
To start with the morn.
Her hair is sun-golden
Her eyes blue as skies
And her dress long and verdant
Late winter defies.

She treads down the slope
In the sun's early glow
And into the woods
Still with patches of snow.
She steps through the meadow
And from each footstep rises
Bright tulips or daffodils
With other surprises.

She moves through the orchard
And after her passing
Sweet, pink apple blossoms
Are saucily tossing.
She comes to my garden
On a warm southern breeze
And blows her soft breath
To awaken the trees.

The days they are longer
The nights not so cold
And soon 'neath the shrubs
Will be violet and gold.

May 2, 2003

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