The season of life, primavera, 

A time for making memories, 

For learning from our histories, 

And applying sound philosophies.

A businessman becomes a poet, A shuffle left to right, 

A pretty day provides a way, To feel a muse to write. 

Inspiration is a wondrous thing, Not forced or malretrieved,

A gift indeed fit for a king, True beauty that’s conceived. 

How long to make, no one should state, A poem by its count,

For quality is hard to see, By word count or amount. 

So listen to the sirebirds, They demand no length of days, They sing with joy to simply be, The first ones to emerge.

Some time it takes to set aside, For vain distractions pass,

Three dozen minutes to perceive, A Note of Springtime that will last.