This morning the green wrists of Gerbera,

Appear stiffened as if to hold,  

The gentle capitulum carefully,

As the spring wind caresses them

With her old warm fingers.  

In the hedge, the dianthus and cosmos conspire  

In naivete to sway adrift from bumblebees,   

Which then sense their discomfiture,  

And in a frenzy pick sap from their discs.  

The fields are agog with mustard racemes,

They have hosted a musical recital

Of aphids and beetles,   

And the violet florets of chick pea,  

Listen intently rapt in admiration.  

Each bough of citrus dance with health,  

While tiny white renegade buds emerge,

From tender meristematic tips of branches,

I drink the tangy aroma of flowers,

And revel in pleasures of spring.