We draw spring closer to the ground,
so that stars no longer hang in the night sky,
but begin to grow from the earth.

Spring grows close to the ground.
An apple core turns between the fingertips,
as the fruit is slowly pressed into juice,
and green gently spreads along the contours of the grass.

Spring, laid out to dry—
coarse and soft, pressing against one another,
yet always reaching toward the light.

Pin spring to the ends of your hair,
and with each passing strand,
the grass begins to sway softly.

A little bear falls into the grass,
shifting form along its “journey,”
wrapping the fluffy green into something soft.

Step into spring—
flowers lead the way,
drawing you into its quiet trap.
Blades of grass begin to sway;
everything is already in motion.