the hills are calling

it’s spring
the hills are calling;
tender new leaves on trees
peach blossom
plum flowers
they are calling, calling.

it’s spring
the sky is blue
winter clouds have sailed away
the breeze soothes, not bite,
they are calling, calling.

it’s spring
sparrows are nesting
the cuckoo calls
from his green hiding place
wind music in pine woods
they are calling, calling.

it’s spring
my heart flies to the hills
on wind’s wing
it dances
to pine music
cuckoo’s song
for the hills are calling, calling.

Prescriptive note

Poetry should be lean,
rippling with muscle;
not flabby, or squelchy like
gutter mud.
Poetry should be clean,
hard and bright, like
polished diamond;
shaped of sifted words,
purged of dross, like
refined gold.