Spry little birds,
stopping by for
seeds and weeds,
perch on limbs of
freshly budding trees.
Return they do
each year,
to sing their
gay rhapsodies
outside my window;
build nests in hanging
baskets on my porch.
Such industry
an ongoing life process;
I, too, feel renewed
in Spring.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem