winter leaves my corpse on the doorstep of spring

it breathes, but it does not live.

it does not sing, hum, joke, shout, or cry.

and so spring does what she does best: happening

the shy sun hiding under its veil of clouds on cerulean sky,

  watercolor drops of blooming violets on verdant grass,

    the scent of fresh mulch across the great lawn,

      churlish soldiers of pollen fiercely attacking my nose,

        dandelions bating their breath loftily to grant wishes,

          birds snipping through music notes for attention

skirts and tanks rustle their dust off,

dancing over to frill my temperate body

the window blinds stretch themselves up,

liquid amber splashing my room

rain gently dances on the window,

droplets 

extending 

    down 

       elegantly

politely sprinkling glitter into hair

or 

thundering 

    down with 

      shrieks and 

            stomps

pouring fat tears onto our faces

the scent of rain on asphalt smells strangely salty and dense

and although the weather huffs a last memory of winter,

I find solace in the greenery around me,

spring painting over the blank canvas winter left

at last, i seek out the sun, bloom alongside the violets, smell the mulch, wish on the dandelions, sing with the birds, dress in my skirts and tanks, bathe in the light, cry and dance and shout with the rain,

and by spring simply happening, i am cured from winter’s lethargy