when the season
poets love the most
breaks the crust of ice
and lifts its emerald head
above the vapors of
winters last foul breath,
then all of God's creatures
stir in their tiny cavernous hollows
and rustle like the skin
of a caterpillar
shedding it's cocoon,
to emerge as a metamorphis
from last years corpses
into a sea of colors and a breath
so fresh that it teases flower heads
from hiding into another growing season,
taste the sweetness of dew on crocus,
as soft breezes blow apple petals
like tiny boats into the gutter streams
formed by the rains that seed the spring
that overflows the hearts of all
who love this world....
when it is well sprung!
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