The ice and snow are almost melted,
Winter’s biting cold has mellowed,
Mountains brown and bare for so long,
Show an almost imperceptible haze of green.
The sky is the delicate shade of thrushes’ eggs
Soon to be laid in a nest of mud and twigs.
A mole furrows the earth’s brow with his tunneling,
Cautious tongues of green make their way
Through last autumn’s leaves into the balmy air.
The first robin pecks at the newly softened ground,
And drags an unwilling worm into the light.
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