Egg Hunt

Distracted from the path
I see
a twinkling creek.
It splashes me.

What flower this?
What swooning scent?
Here willow makes
a feathered tent.

There sunlight speckles
dancing bees.
I learn the hum of
April’s breeze.

Then–time is up.
Egg hunt is done.
Eggs are counted
one by one.

My pail is empty–
not a thing…
but, oh, my heart
is filled
with spring.

~Eileen Spinelli

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