Easter

This dawn when the mountain cherry lifts

its frail white bloom among the dark pines,

and chipmunks flash small happy paws

along old tumbled boundary lines,

this golden morning when the vixen

nuzzles her five young foxes forth

to roll in ferns in the Easter sun, -

again the woods know soft green birth.

Snuffed by a puffball infant rabbit

are yellow violets by the spring;

among half-opened apple buds

a wood thrush tilts his head to sing.

Risen is He! And they are His,

who scamper under warm blue skies,

who nibble little fists of grass,

and gaze on earth with shy glad eyes.
Frances Frost