My feet crunch on white-sculpted tufts of grass
By a tree-rooted path leading back home
The groud frozen, once muddy morass
Changed by time\'s metronome;
This time of year I hate
This gateway to the Spring
When skies of slate
The leaden doom-clouds bring;
But if it didn\'t exist
Spring would not be the same
When nature, ever the artist
Paints lances of cold flame;
How can Spring\'s coat be worn
Eyes once shut, opened wide
How can something be re-born
If it never died?