The scent of green sprouts of grass
Is carried with the promise
Of ten thousand brightly colored blossoms
Heady perfumes mixed carefully
By the warm breath of Spring.
Life surges, in buds and sprouts with
The ardent purpose of painting
The landscape of my dreams
Hillside and meadow alike
With brightly colored flowers.
Alive in this time and place
After all these years of growth
An ancient tree has few sprouts
To disperse its scent of evergreen
On the warm breath of spring.
No mercy in winters cold air
No shelter from rushing wind
Life draws back into roots
In sparse rocky soil grown
And waits for the chill to pass.
For eons now a molecule at a time
Sprouts reluctantly grow from brittle
Sticks frozen gray by arctic cold
In winter past now unable to resist
The hesitant warm breath of spring.
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