Spring is:
A forest of purple crocuses, bundled and now
Open, wilted and
Leaning with the wind
Hugging her,
Rough sweater and soft shoulders,
My clutching hands
Books brought in from the cold,
Cracked open at night
Under warm bedroom light
Clearing aged leaves and
Planting seeds and
Tucking roots into
Gritty spring soil
Keeping on keeping,
Running in tingly, rejuvenating
Cold
Looking for flowers
Feeling the wind
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