Like me, brought from my childhood home and transplanted to my grown-up one.
Spring is the scent of lilacs right outside my front door,
Of wisteria, dangling from the trees, so lovely and bright, I forget it doesn't belong.
Spring is dogwoods in delicate, white and pink, bloom,
Of the mulititude of Eastern Redbuds, lining streets and backyards as if each branch were coated in mauve.
Spring is baby chicks, so soft and delicate, they fit in my hand.
Spring is my world being born again.
