3.19-3.25: Privare Spiritus

Mid-March they come a-marching:
The flowers and the bees.
One comes bursting, one comes buzzing;
Both come bringing Spring with ease.
Pops of orange, green, pink, and red
Are birthed from hibernation.
They stretch to sky as if they said
We’re proud of our creation.

All summer long they shine and sing,
Mocking what Winter will undoubtedly bring.

Come Fall the petals shiver and shake,
Bracing winds that freeze them cold.
The flowers suffer powerful forces that make
Them turn to gray and old.
Lives of only six months, so why even care
To make beauty from salted sand?
Soon snow will cover the saps and the snares
That once flourished on this land.

The brisk air comes whistling fast.
The strongest of all will not last.

Even the birds don’t chirp like they once did,
Finding solace in their homes.
There once was Spring, but we mocked it.
Now we’re chilled down to our bones.
The ice is thick and the pain cuts deep.
There are no colors in plain sight.
Though the promise of the tips of trees
Takes the teeth from the frostbite.

Numbness takes the twinkle from what I’d seen right here last Spring,
But snows will melt and lands will rise to give back initial green.

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