Early she comes, sweeping softly across the hills,
Skirts lifted, bare toes just touching the ground.
Herself, coming to rest upon Winter’s crisp brown grass.
At her warm touch, young buds peek out
From the barren limbs of sleeping trees,
And a frigid ground gives way
To the gentle push of Spring’s flowers.
Nature yawns, moves and stretches
As Spring comes to waken the earth
To her glorious morning once more.