The awakening mountains
	Shed their winter snow and ice
	In streams and rivulets
	Chill and pure.
	First sluggish,
	Each quickening drop
	Seeks its downhill path
	Through ancient, mossy
	Cracks and rifts
	In which lie
	The cast-off leaves and twigs
	Of past summers' glory.
	Atop the peaks
	Is felt
	The throbbing, pulsing wind
	Which calls to life
	The sleeping rocks and trees.
	They dream now,
	In the last empty weeks
	Before the streaming dawn,
	Of innumerable springs long past;
	And from those timeless
	Imaginings comes
	The eternal inspiration
	Soon to burst forth
	In fountains of yellow forsythia,
	In cascades of lacy wedding train,
	In the supple lyrics of birdsong
	And the rush of waterfalls.
	Heed the rains of spring
	Which wash away
	The chill and scales of winter.
	Follow the tumbling clouds
	As they roll
	Through skies of newborn blue.
	Drink from mountain streams
	Whose water
	Brims with Life unleashed anew.
	Listen to the birds
	Pour forth their souls,
	And recall the eternal song
	Locked deep within your heart.
	The world,
	Both unseen and seen,
	Is but an endless reflection
	Of All That Is,
	And within us
	Can be found the ageless rock,
	The rushing stream,
	The budding leaf and flower.
	We, too, sing the Song of Spring
	And may hear Its call
	If we but listen
	To the mountains and the birds.


© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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