to stroke the skin of ripening
birches fringed like armies
of buckskinned arms, their fine-boned
fingers splattering buds like spots
of blood in the sky
The above is from one of my poems that was published back in the mid-eighties. The birches in the park haven’t yet begun to sprout, but there are these bushes doing something similar:

My favorite spring poem is this one by ee cummings (sorry, but the spacing doesn’t seem to come out the way it’s supposed to, even though it looks fine in the “entry” box).
in just-
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it’s
spring
and
the
goat-footed
balloonman whistles
far
and
wee
Around here it is certainly JUST spring. The ice is just thinning. The mud is just emerging into something puddleluscious. The sky today is an Easter Bunny blue, but just how long it will last is anybody’s guess.

I have always done whatever spring cleaning I get around to doing with Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring blaring in the background.
It’s time for revving up. C’mon Oestre. You go, girl.