The spring is fresh

There is nothing quite like early spring in New England. Tree buds, bird choruses, shimmering dewdrops on grass that's finally growing again. The breeze smells of new growth; I've traded out my snow shovel for my garden rake. Smiles and possibilities are in the air. I echo Sara Teasdale when she says, "The spring is fresh and fearless, and every leaf is new. My heart is fresh and fearless and over-brimmed with spring." My new setting of this lovely poem seeks to evoke the delicate subtlety of a spring evening, an evening rife with fragrant air and filled with the sounds of peepers singing by a nearby pond. An evening where the cares and insanity of a busy life recede, and we can slow down and notice the simple joys and present beauties that surround us.