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#1 of 4 Old 03-09-2006, 12:48 AM - Thread Starter
 
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Write something about spring. I happen to think that spring starts when the sap starts to rise and the first crocus bloom, the bulbs quicken and trees form buds of promise. To me the Spring Equinox is mid-spring and the Summer solstice is mid-summer, and so on...

What does spring mean to you. What would it look like through a childs eyes?

                                Whatever will be, already is...
 
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#2 of 4 Old 03-12-2006, 03:14 AM
 
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Off the top of my head (they just get overwritten otherwise):

Spring springs, precociously toddling.
Spring is not rebirth, but toddling;
the new year's birth is hidden in a womb of snow,
its cries the babble of first melting snow.
The infant year is all swaddled limbs,
but the toddler stands, sends out awkward limbs,
grasping shoots and tendrils from its cradle.
It learns to climb inch by inch from its cradle
and leaves the brown arms of its mother
(sends leaves from its mother),
tearing forth to take on the world
(taken into the world),
coats its white world in green scribble,
then finds others in its box to scribble:
red, yellow, blue, rainbows' hue,
scrawling fingerprints of every hue.



Yeah, I know, the same-word endings is kind of a gimmick, but I liked it.
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#3 of 4 Old 03-14-2006, 06:23 PM
 
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Just something simple, I love daffodils. They are my favorite flower, I can't wait all winter until they arrive.

Dancing, bobbing yellow heads
flirt with snow drops in their beds.

Sunlight shining, peaking through
glistening on the morning dew.

Pale pink petals floating down
laying as snow upon the ground.

A little bird has whispered in my ear
can't you tell that spring is here.
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#4 of 4 Old 03-16-2006, 11:42 AM
 
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The squalling of the birds was the first thing she noticed as she stepped outside the door. It was a large,black,teeming maddening mass of birds in the backyard tree.
"Birds," she thought to herself. "I'd forgoteen about the birds."

They were all around her now, 3 robins the her neigneighbors tree, Mourning Doves on the roof peak, sparrows and wrens fighting it out for seeds in the feeder.

It had been a long winter. Not a winter of snow and cold and christmas and sledding, rather one full of dull, frozen-grey days. The clouds seemed to have settled into place months ago, never giving any bright, clean snow, just blocking out the sun and its light, its warmth. It seemed as if the clouds had taken up permanant place in the sky and in her mind, her heart.

Today, though, today the birds were back, alive and singing, racing from tree to tree, branch to branch, yard to sky. Their happy noises filled the air and spots of feathered orange, red, shimery green and blue danced through the sky. At her feet, the tulip bulbs had just thrust their brave, thin leaves through the half-tawed brown muck.

She breathed in the electric-cold air and smiled again for the first time in weeks, in months. It smelled of spring. It smelled of hope.
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