The grass is not emerald green. 
It is a thicker shade, more inviting.
Welcoming as a field of poppies
though more austere.
The single tree in rustling witness stands
to Nature’s indifferent sculpting of the land.
The ground is cool and moist with anticipation
-A land of milk and honey, as they say.
The barony of spring whets the last of winter’s embers,
preparing summer’s empire by degrees.
The breeze disappears over the horizon,
following the arc of the sun, and I am
one step closer to the water’s edge.