In April the hillside spring is still covered with last autumn’s leaf fall
And marked only where the brown forest blanket is blackened
With the soak and seep.
Who would brush away this covering
And kneel and take double handfuls for drink
And feel enlivened by the cool, new tingle?
There are yet cold days ahead, even in April
Then the spring’s water will not refresh
But only chill the raw skin.