Metamorphosis

Metamorphosis.

Always it happens when we are not there--

The tree leaps up alive into the air,

Small open parasols of Chinese green

Wave on each twig.

But who has ever seen

The latch sprung, the bud as it burst?

Spring always manages to get there first.

Lovers of wind, who will have been aware

Of a faint stirring in the empty air,

Look up one day through a dissolving screen

To find no star, but this multiplied green,

Shadow on shadow, singing sweet and clear.

Listen, lovers of wind, the leaves are here!

by May Sarton