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