You could pass right by here and not notice.
A glance tells you there’s nothing going on,
same old bare trees, no color, didn’t see
a living thing. But stand here for a minute.
Don’t pay those sycamores any mind.
They bring up the train on spring’s dance.
Look over there, across that little pond,
against the dark pines. The pink haze. See it?
Look! A whole sweep of pink is everywhere.
The colors never look like this any other time of year.
Soon, frogs will sing. But now. this overture of waking hues,
so pristine, and ringing.