What is spring?
Is it the bright kelly of the green grass?
The soggy, muddy puddles from a week…nay, I say a month…of rain?
Is spring in the Mallard duck duo that waddle the nearby field
or the laborious, beginning push of daffodils and tulips?
In the fearful black buds against a damp gray sky, it is here.
Hiding in the thorny bushes,
hiding from the golden sun,
holding off its presence a bit more,
a sneer upon its face,
it delights in watching us all go mad.
Want spring? Go here.