Green shoots with white tips,
Emerge all around
From the bushes and bark,
And even the ground.
The chipmonk sees no shadow or ice,
Announcing a newbirth, and paradise.
Bluebirds exchange, about the advent of spring,
Worker bees tarry on, protecting the their queen.
Blueberries anew, breaking up tight pods,
A mirage of true colors, sent but from God.
Mixed scents from the blossoms of trees,
Mingling aroma, of a noon day's sea.
Spreading roses of red, dogwoods of white,
Open by day, and close only by night.
Such a domain, and presence we cling.
In God's glory, and the advent of Spring.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem