I lay beneath the heavenly wisteria canopy,
as the mockingbird scolds scattering squirrels,
The loveliness of spring,
Dreams of youth,
long ago laughter of sixties' children
that ripple the water in the bird bath,
O, the romances born amidst springs' blossoms,
Rainbows in the sprinkler's water,
where are my parents, my siblings?
They are lost to time.

Nineteen sixty four,
wearing my Mouseketeer ears, 
Disney show on Sunday nights,
freshly mown grass fragrance, 
I weep to Lady April
as she caresses my face with a newborn's breath,
Far from Long Island, but yet I'm there again,
Dandelions and buttercups,
Easter time, dressed in pastel finery,
but not as glorious as the gladiolus and honeysuckle
with their soothing scent.

Why does youth hastily leave?
There a permanence to spring's presence,
when you feel renewed, hopeful,
The labor of the honeybees at pollinating,
as they buzz by your head,
Crickets anxious to assemble their nightfall concert
as giggling children chase fireflies,
I begin to sing childhood songs,
open the screen door of my North Carolina home,
My two young grandchildrens' lips purple
and pink from their popsicles,
My youth born again in them.