And there is the age old poem that runs through my head, and sometimes spills out of my mouth at that first whiff of spring in the air. It’s the poem that my dad would say every year at the first bud.
Spring is Sprung by Anonymous
Spring is sprung, the grass is riz
I wonder where the birdie is
They say the bird is on the wing
But that’s absurd
I say the wing is on the bird
In my searching on the internet, I couldn’t find who wrote this, and Dad’s not around to ask. If anyone knows who actually wrote this I would love to hear from you.