The smell of crying
Moist, dew laden morning grass
Even on the most arid day
At night it ekes out from the ground
The vivacious soothing cycle
Of mother nature’s womb
The coming of spring, bloom of
Vivacious lustful flowers in all their
Whimsical, flirtatious glory
Spelling certain doom
Sealing the winter, in its cold steely tomb
They say there is a thin line
Between love and hate
Perhaps they are even
One and the same
Like when one dies of frostbite
Their burning physical manifestation
Craves the cool relief of rain
With spring comes the changing of mother nature’s guards
For sixteen years
The banner laid dormant
Spring is not uniform, instead an eccentric assortment
Daffodils, lilies,
orchids, and colors like fire
Who could’ve known winter would rise from the dead with such ire
Seventy degree days slip silently to 20 degree mornings
While people sleep in their beds, frogs in a pot of boiling water