Spring has whispered its spell over the barren countryside turning the brown, one green. It has not yet reached the high karst mountain summits, but in the stand of beach cladding the slopes, witness its reaching. Another week, another day, another hour, and there will be a time for such a summit. Now the wild strawberries are in bloom: another month, they will be fruiting. Then the fruit will ripen and we will descend and plunder nature’s store of sweet secrets, for only mouths are we.
Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things? The cuckoo. Through the woods, laying her eggs in nests that are for others, surely sings: we hear in it the first true song of spring.
Written for dVerse
“Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things?”