Arbutus

Up the high hill in ecstasy we race, Then turn around to gaze below its height, Where flowing brooks and pastures interlace, Pleasing and cool in early morning light.

Above the mist-enveloped glen We feel the influence of fairy wands; Damp smell of wood and odors of the fen, Bits of soft moss and tiny green curled fronds.

In little valleys snow still lingers on, And under prickly boughs of rugged spruce The King of Winter's marks are not yet gone; The Princess Spring is asking now for truce.

Beside an ancient rotting stump we find A dainty mystery rousing fresh delight, The small arbutus blossoms are entwined With clinging tendrils, hidden from the sight.

It does not even feel the chill of snows, And often blooms beside a rivulet Where Springtime's vibrant opalescence flows. With me its piquant odor lingers yet.