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 into a metamorphism from last years corpses
into a sea of color and a breath so fresh that 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!
the rain without refrain distracts my brain and dulls the pain there is almost a pattern in the splash drops dancing across the window of this greyhound bus forming long trail ways that make sense as the world flies by in a blur, where loneliness is my song accompanying it's syncopated beats.
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