An emerald vine crept up a dying trunk,
Mossy and wet with the morning dew.
Tiny white blossoms adorned her joints,
Each leaf a crown in verdant hue.
The Spring Court of the faerie waits,
For the arrival of their glorious king.
This stump his throne in a patch of light,
Brushed by the whiff of his gorgeous wing.
Golden curls that fall into his eyes,
Brushed back by the zephyr, cool.
His gaze will rouse the sleepy buds,
And teach them how to wake and bloom.
March, May, June they’ll glide on past,
As he paints the world in pastel schemes.
Till Summer’s king returns to claim
This throne, with aureate and verdant dreams.