‘Spring is the mischief in me’- thawing the icicles within, into brooklets of fun,
That flow in short spurts- but last long enough to sprout an idea or two.
‘Spring is the mischief in me’- the bubbling fluid zigzags often turn into ‘anything-buds’;
Bunches of ‘anything buds’- which can be, well, anything they want to be.
‘Spring is the mischief in me’- these close fisted beauties pout their taut lips,
Teasing my thoughts out of the quicksand of predictable routine.
‘Spring is the mischief in me’-they say, adding ‘we can be anything; you can be anything Brooklet, bud, and a baby green leaf at the edge of a dry woody bark.
That ‘Spring is the mischief in me’ is the word that has got around it seems;
And now they all know, else why would there be a conspiracy of colours…
on the canvas of my winter-born heart?
‘Make mischief,’ they say- ‘Be Spring; be the Mischief; make Trouble.
Trouble the palpitating fears that bring you to your knees,
Trouble the automaton routine that builds electric fences around your dreams,
Let there be Trouble… and then?
Feel the wind in your breath,
Smell the colour in the season,
Taste the feelings of your soul,
See the brilliance of you!’
Spring is the mischief in me, I believe;
And if there is anarchy in the kingdom of monotony tonight,
I shall blame the moon for this madness,And chuckle to show how Spring has worked its mischief in me.
all pictures have been taken by me- i owe the refrain to Robert Frost only- the rest is mine 🙂