Morning after a night of rain, the speaker walks through the woods and notices how everything yields. The ground is soft, and the title, "Springy," sets the tone: this is a landscape that gives way and then recovers. Even a rotting birch log collapses underfoot, yet its bark arches back up once the speaker has passed. Nothing is permanently crushed.
The last image shifts from the ground to new growth. Young ferns uncoil, and the poem describes their heads "slowly dissolving into spine and ribs." The ferns look almost like bodies, or skeletons, taking shape. That small comparison makes the forest feel alive and physical, as though the speaker is walking among creatures rather than plants.
The speaker never states a feeling, but the close, patient attention suggests quiet delight and respect. The mood is gentle, fresh, and calm. The short lines and simple words slow the reader down, as if we are stepping carefully too, watching the woods bounce back.