She is here again,
All birds and bees and
Dicks drawn on yellow car windows.
Scabby knees and windy mornings
Rustling orange blooms,
In mohair grass.
The romantics ignore her dark side.
The one with the still-cold morning light,
The light and the chill have a better memory
Than even the trees in mid yawn.
Just stirring from near death.
Watching ice cream, mini skirts,
and sandals slink out of hibernation.
But this isn't about spring,
It's about sitting.
Sitting under a tree in the morning,
Whatever really changes?
Answers are eels between fingers.
Gut feelings need a home.
Their bed made for them,
Stories to be told to them.
Fuel for dreams.
That seems more manageable,
Than sitting under a tree and waiting for spring.