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Spring Spring does not necessarily come When called by the stiff rules of the calendar, Nor by the predictions of small furry creatures. Instead she may quietly creep in through the back window, Or perhaps burst carelessly and confidently through the front door, Whatever suits her best at that moment. Some measure Spring’s entrance by The year’s first robin. But for me Spring is the faint persistent scent of mud, Daffodils boisterously pushing their way up toward the sun, Crickets whirring musically outside my window, Lulling me to sleep. Butterflies and honeybees dance in celebration When Spring arrives and The blushing lilacs slowly begin to open, Shyly whispering “Hello, Spring.” 
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