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In Spring the flowering dogwood blooms,
And the hawks begin to cry,
They circle and chase and sing of love
Across the Willow Creek sky.
The trilliums told, their leaves unfold,
Deep throats a'filled with white,
There will still be cold, some splashing sun,
And rain with its steely bite.
For many a year I've watched these sights,
Each time it does amaze,
That youth, not age, reveals itself,
Before the thoughtful gaze.
For many a year I've watched these sights,
The earth its fruits renew,
The baby quail, dart wispy quick,
Through new green grass and dew.
In Spring the flowering dogwood blooms,
The book has turned a page,
The earth is ever young my friend,
A world that does not age.
