The first dew of a late-summer morn,
Drops right on top of a bud at dawn,
You never know when the bud will turn into blossom,
For it's spring's onset, and winter's almost gone.

That spotted, winged flutterer,
Will now be all graceful and groomed,
No wonder it's the field of pink poppies,
That makes her drift away from gloom.

The budded yellow tulips in the nearby yard,
Will now sight the first look of the world around,
As the subtle dawn sunrise,
Will wake them from their slumber, gentle and sound.

The radiance and the vibrance of colours never enjoyed,
Will now fill up the atmosphere with lush harmony,
As spring heralds the beginning of a new bloom,
And embarks on a journey to eternity...