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I feel it, first as a stir,turning deep in the murky water.Surfaces up for air, a twitchon the lake in my head.A flip, and it disappears.
Spring is baby,bright, fresh and new,gurgling with the melting snow,singing with the first cuckoo.
The moon was married last nightand nobody saw,dressed up in her ghostly dressfor the summer ball.
We don' have a Springtime like some folkWho live in dem colder place,but we have a time when de soft rain come,an' tease open de seedcaseo' de poincianna and de trumpet tree,