An ode to spring

Look how the gardener hates those weeds
As soon as the Wren makes her nest
It's then his squeaky wheelbarrow impedes
With the forked-out; green Medusa's headdress.

But look here in the meadow of idle hands,
A yellow chaffinch and a cluster of bluebells
By tall oaks here Primrose edge of woodlands.
Clouds pass over in shades-of-dappled-pastels.

Cozy silence is broken; by half-a-dozen Ravens
In the Horse chestnuts waving ship like masks
Spring opens a drying pine cone as lupines
Purple-like spruce trees, opening flowery Basques.

Glistening fishes, abdomens are swollen like a pear.
At the first taste of spring a sheet web spider?
Makes her own, perennial hammocks snare—
To sew-up spring her first petal winged fibres.

Here to a brown hare crouches dying in numbers
Once a common sight, running at 35 mph—
In male dominance but now on one's uppers
Their circles of competition to attain - plagued.

Sorry I couldn't make it more cheerful
But that is the nature of nature after all.