Because all poets must write of spring

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Today's poem is no masterpiece, but it says what I feel. And that's enough.

I've come back home to the springtime,
The forest all in bud.
The growing green, the swollen stream,
The glorious, glorious mud.

I've come back home to the country
From the rush to the hush and the hill
From urban sprawl to garden wall
And blooming daffodil.

So keep your city glitter—
Up here I'm better fed.
I've got dirt beneath my fingernails
And trees above my head!

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