Springtime

Across the street the neighbor’s boy Is spading the half-frozen ground; He stops occasionally to pounce Upon a worm, wiggling and round; He holds it high exultantly, Then drops it in a small glass jar, And looking toward the soft blue hills, He sees the fishing brook afar.

As twilight comes and shadows fall Across the yard and vacant lot, The boy still digs with easy grace, And sees in his mind’s eye a spot Where early sunlight tipped with gold Flickers across a shaded stream; Feels not the weight of heavy sod, But one large trout bending his rod.