...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxRjncYGLHE

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It's raining on the island, now,

This time of year - moisture 

Collects on cedar boughs, 

Drips

Onto fern fronds and 

Mossy deadfall, onto 

The exposed and soggy 

Root-beds

Beneath the ancient, ringed bark

Of yet ancient, old-growth trees.

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Somewhere, in the bush, 

An old man awakens

And raises his bearded head 

Into the softness 

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of the dew.

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As he yawns,

Spring escapes 

From his breathy mouth

as pollens do 

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from yew.  

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