The feisty forsythia thrusts itself into the blue violet air of spring,
everywhere joyously poking and jabbing,
Atwhirl among the city trash or dancing down an open field,
It won't stop saying - 'Yes'!
Except of course, where some fool
has brutally whacked its spirit into an ugly ball.
Then it squeezes out an occasional desultory bloom,
just to show what might have been.
