Today the sunshine is thinned
by high milky clouds thin themselves
a translucent skin of the sky's blue dome
The waiting goes fast here
the winter is mercifully brief,
I attend the birch tree, a memory-aid
to the passing of four true seasons,
to leaf
It will be soon now
The hillside grasses are an impossible green
don't need Ireland's green heart
or the jungle's profligate growth
They spring up overnight
invited by little rains
Cold dry mornings
Yield to the sunlight, warming quickly
like bread rising.
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