Springtime: nature stirs,
yawning, rubs away
the dust of winter sleep
the cut heads
of crocus that clustered
by the Catholic church
are all that is left
of last month’s lilac mass.

April showers water
seedlings that break
the surface toward Summer
and daffodils glisten,
after rain, like crocks
of Ireland’s gold
nuggets precious
as the new born day.

Unsteady, he strives
to stand erect,
tiny fingers clutching
Autumn’s weathered hands.
Six-months old,
he smiles our world,
the spotless future shines
in his Irish eyes.

Pink-petaled magnolia
form baby mouths
and Forsythia
bursts into bloom
near barren branches.
Nature has her seasons
and Shaun is all
our expectations.