From the Book of Stillmeadow (1948)
Spring is always a surprise to me.
It never seems possible that this is the same yard
that was knee-deep in snow and armored in ice.
Suddenly it is starred with daffodils, as if
someone had cut the sun up in pieces and
scattered them everywhere. And when the trees
turn from etchings into watercolors, that is amazing, too.
The misty greens and warm shiny pink buds and the swelling varnished tips on the lilacs. Everything is like a dream.