April

There is the time amidst of April
When sleeping nature cheers up
And weeps like an offended pup
With first sweet-scented birchen sap rill.

Green sprouts have just flittered out
From pudently unfolding buds
And roosting at the twigs of nuts
Enjoy the sun by merry crowd.

Already fern begins to shoot
Through carpet of the last-year leaves
But hungry little fluffy thieves
Dig up it for the tasty root.

Dark water of the forest lake
Has torn at last the icy bonds
Releasing quiet beaver ponds
Encircled with the reddish brake.

The near mead is steel asleep
And withered pinks as if enchanted
For sure dream of being granted
So this is their latter deep.

Last birdies are yet flying North
But spring already fills its rummer,
Soon there emerge first signs of summer
To lay the open-handed cloth.

Kiev