The jonquils. They come back. They split the earth with their green swords, bearing cups of light.

The forsythia comes back, spraying its thin whips with blossom, one loud yellow shout.

The robins. They come back. They pull the sun on the silver thread of their song.

The iris come back. They dance in the soft air in silken gowns of midnight blue.

The lilacs come back. They trail their perfume like a scarf of violet chiffon.

And the leaves come back, on every tree and bush, millions and millions of small green hands applauding your return.