Who tells the crocuses it's spring?

What calendar informs the daffodils
To bloom, or notifies the birds to sing,
Or bids the grass to blow across the hills?
What almanac has urged the leaves to wake,
Or stirred the tulips in their narrow beds?
What messenger instructs the buds to break,
Or violets to lift their purple heads?
And yet they know.
They know.
This is the hour when spring takes over.
Let the winter pass...
You cannot keep it from the wistful flower,
You cannot hide it from the eager grass.
It's spring. It's spring! The news has got around,
Spreading like fire across the quickened ground.

May Winkler Goodman
~~~

I'd meant to post this pretty Spring poem earlier but never got around to it until now when it's more Summer than Spring. Not that we actually have Spring in these parts. It's either winter where you need to sun yourself outside (January came and went with everyone doing basically that, just trying to catch some sun all day). Or it's Summer where we all wilt even up here in the cooler climes of the mountains. Or it's the third and my least favourite season, the monsoon where everything's wet, muddy and mildewed.