All winter the lawn has loafed
under its thick white quilt
and wakes in April, tousle-headed,
crusty-edged, and with the freshest shoots of weeds
curled cheekily in its damp, bare places.
Afternoon sun, a stiff rake,
and the layabout sits, chastened,
scrubbed and alert:
waiting to don a new green suit.
Writing Spaces 
I’d love to hear what you think!