The Silver Oak

A dew washed morning,
The last whiffs of Winter, still unyielding,
Even as Spring readies itself,
To cast around its Midas touch,
And paint the sprawling hillside lush,
A reckless riot of colours.
Dainty sunshine, playfully dancing,
On dew drops cradled by the grass,
Pageants of butterflies, on scaffolds of flowers,
And adorning the fresco, like a masterstroke,
Its virgin buds raring, to burst into blossom,
Is the regal, sublime Silver Oak.