In the springtime comes the grass, from somewhere down below,
springing up from the March mud relentless,
as though it would cover the boy of summer,
under the tree at which he dallied.

And so it has, a million times.
Boys no longer dally at trees,
but I suspect it will find them anyway.

The poor southerner has a year long quest to keep it at bay,
but here, after the November rain, we get snow.

Down from above in splendor,
driven mad by the wind,
a blanket descends on the ground below,
making it beautiful once again.

Fleeting and taking nothing
it will not in time give back,
as thought it were a bender
from the anxious grass.