It is spring, Lord.
and my blood runs warm with the song of the sap.
for a beauty I would become.
And there is the mystery
and the smile of it.
The buds are swelling on the bush,
the sun is beginning to coax the color
from where it's been curled against the cold,
the air is sweet to the nostrils;
even the city seems to be rubbing its eyes
from a long sleep.
It is spring, Lord,
and something stirs in me,
groping for words,
peeking through my defenses,
beckoning in my laughter,
riding on past my fears,
pulsing in my music.