Let music from the spheres pour into your trapped ears,

missing that let calibrated voices begin to rap.

There is no crash course on when to peep

and when to be in silence steeped;

when shrill notes become more than just foot notes 

as sun beams penetrate their dreams. 

Inconspicuous, almost ridiculous frogs 

without meter or rhyme, such brazen devotion define, 

such far-fetched notions

like catching butterflies on the wing,

and not letting go even in the snow

while a flash of red, white and gold birds

fly by with a dash of hope renewed

in the spring of a doe.

The notes may come from a few inflated throats at first,

the outspoken ones piercing the gathering warmth 

token on a March day, delayed in the next day’s frost, 

going for broke in the fragrant air soon on its way

till the full musical chorus stretches beyond endurance

relaying its message in April or May. 

In the wind-rows where snow was stowed,

telescoping blankets of snow drops

enjoined with a blue stars as if shot out

of an arrow from afar,

How will we ever find peace of mind again

unless everything happens at Show time? 

Their voices pale before the sunshine

impales blossoms on trees and bushes imprisoning them

bursting forth finding fruition their only course. 

Sounding abrupt much like a Greek chorus,

peepers fail to undermine the wafting stream of bird song,

emancipating us from the stronghold of our winter ways

while we rake away the last leaves to comprise autumn’s fate.

No need to analyze, like a refresher chorus 

from now on our lives are consumed by blooms

of varying beauty born to be free of any contingencies.