Sharp green spears of cress
And mauve-tinged henbit
Pouncing forth from
Winter’s ironclad mouth
Make me want to stop, to bend, to graze:
Atavistic urge is nowhere near the mark,
When every cell in every bone configures
To spring’s wild come-hither guile.
The graphic of cress sprouting from a computer keyboard is from the Flickr stream of wetwebwork, as archived at Wikimedia Commons.