The sun, though tentative, begins to paint,
teasing colour back from stark and cold.
Those long slim lines, from which the snow recedes
in silence as it came, relinquishing its hold,
slowly brush light on every blade:
and underneath the world’s much brighter than it was.

And when those rays find the tiny drops
which linger still in branches,
just lifting their leaves
free of the weight,
the garden’s full of rainbows,
which swing and whirl
in dizzying circles of dancing delight.

Dazzled eyes follow with longing
their leaping arcs
sweeping
a luminous waltz.

There’s nothing can mirror
those radiant jetés,
and the softest departure of snow;
though there is a small something bursting
today: sun, earth and atoms are spell-bound,
enchanted and drawn to each other
by the visible colour-returning
feast of the world.