I like living in a place
Where Spring happens when it should;
Where daffodils pop out to grace
A barren landscape of dead wood.
When soft new needles of the Larch
Gently sing “warm weather soon”
It’s eager branches bloom in March,
Not waiting until May or June.
Snowdrops, crocus, hyacinth
Shine like the morning sunrise,
Freeing me from the labyrinth
Of Winter’s dull demise.