Flowered Fleet

With steady hold on April's reigns,
Easter ushers Springtime forth,
reveals its lock released,
its lever sprung
and both its stable doors unlatched
and open swung.
Outward trots its flowered fleet,
quickening swift toward gallop full and glistening,
up and toward the towers' blossomed reach,
beneath the cool of shaded bowers,
far beyond the meadows green and overgrowing.

Naught of death remains, in sight nor scent,
within its trodden wake, its tracks
behind and left which render all things
bright and breathing;
Morning's winged residers
all alight and seeming steeped in song,
their cheerful praise
within the dawning's primrose keep.
The gardens groomed for growing burst,
begetting stems and pedals birthed
in colors no less vast that deep,
with depths surpassing moonlit oceans
infant eyes
and starshot skies of late December's making.
The meekest Oak and farthest meadow,
each one leaden, barren, sparse of late
returns to former splendor,
laced with lilies golden white,
adorned with buds and growing.

Easter's waking beckons all things forth,
to death and Winter giving chase,
replaced with realms of latent buds
awake and skyward rising.
Its flowered fleet, of mane
and hoof, and gentle neighing,
gallops far abroad and full
till all things filled with life are welled
and each is overflowing.