"Spring is the mischief in me," mischief, yes—
The smirking crocus buds peeking their heads
Through fields of white are like frost in the fall:
A sign that something deep's about to change.
And since fresh snowy sheets of white
Once baptized all the barren beds, like giant palls,
So now the melting snow sinks down below,
Its purifying waters warm and thaw
Until they reach the hidden spark whose light's
A likeness in earth's loamy night to Him
Who's never seen. And through some mystery
Life stirs beneath the brown decay and springs,
Reveals itself anew and spreads green sails
To catch the sun and flutter in the breeze—
This is the age you may behold in me.
— Elliot Milco