Spring

I am watched by Spring. That is all.
Her contented lips never smile;
her brow never condemns;
her cheek forever rests
in thought on her forefinger.
She wears a floral garland atop her head
and she watches. That is all.

Spring listens to my song.
She listens. That is all.
Her lips remain contented, approving;
she never excites
and never scorns.
I am shy with Spring.
She refuses to judge anything I say,
which means I get no compliments.
She waits for me to impress her,
 that is all,
so passively genial
and interestedly unconcerned.

Her gaze is aware of nothing in particular,
but everything,
so she sits contentedly airy
as if she herself was her own neckerchief
blossomed out of a bare tree branch
and freshens in her breath.

I could never invade her by talking,
but she doesn not mind to listen.
She is not firm in form,
yet she is of every way unshakeable character.
Too graceful for delicate, and, too delicate for stubborn,
nothing could ever disrupt her.
She is eternally her own.
 That is all.