Spring

Can’t you wear something decent, the winter said to the spring?

The last lone leaves that clutch and cling

All sneer from high in brown disdain,

As in the racing rhythmic rain

The flirty flowers, on fumbling feet,

Begin to feel the springtime beat.

They slough their bud-green coats, unfurl.

They nod, they twitch, they twist, they twirl,

Then swing and swish and swoosh and sway

In gaudy giggling dance display.

The earth warms up. The world is theirs.

They haven’t any thoughts or cares

Of winter wind or swirling snow

Or all the time they’ve left to go.

And so the sun bends down to kiss

Each flower, in all its fragile bliss.

 

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