The hue of growing oak is not as green
as forests are on slopes or in my mind,
and my attempt to catch in words the scene
is vain as telling color to the blind.
But it so fills my eyes with miracle,
that fullness must allow me an excuse
for trying to describe the beautiful
eye-bathing sweep of infant spring chartreuse.

I see that yellow green in every frond
of fern that prods the ivy under trees,
for there it radiates its light beyond
itself, off feather points the moisture frees,
and lightly rides the season’s chartreuse cloak
above the older leaves of western oak.