vernal urge

A grey clouded dawn,
but the tender first-emerging leaves of spring
give a hint of colour,
almost a haze blurring the bare branches.
The morning is too warm,
as if this were the jungle,
as if an explosion of life were building,
its pressure forcing buds from the dead boughs,
squeezing the green leaflets out,
pushing sprouts up through the soil,
as if nature would erupt,
gushing violent colours,
transforming the textures and scents of the world,
holding the winds,
absorbing the sun,
and drinking the rain,
with an outpouring of insects and birds,
cowding the air with hectic wings and passionate songs.