Unborns in Spring

It seems that the unborn
whom passed before birth
never to inhale brisk air
nor feel warmth of Sol
or glowing eyes;
a motherly embrace,
actually return in the Spring.

I sense it - in these garden times
sifting handfuls of clayish soil
gently as an infants first grasp,
an exuberance vibrates
miniature pattering
alike a faint rustling.

Amongst the Hyacinths
I am drawn to the neon purple;
multiple blossoms nestling
in unison - one stems many
clustering eyes, splaying petals
numbering more – each year.

The eager warbling of Robin
tunes a curiouser noble song
compelling me nearer
as if each tone outpoured
a voiceless wonderment;
grace once passed by
now to redeem in season.

With arms agape I twist
turning, gazing skyward
cavorting rainbow petals
albeit in sadness
that amongst rejuvenating growth
one senses the lost unborn.