3/6/11
Despite the whitish gray above the trees,
That lingers like the last of winter’s clutch.
Despite the oft deceiving, chilly breeze
Which tries to bite your neck, but cannot, much.
Despite the silent stillness of the peaks,
Which tower high above us, brilliant white.
Despite the brittle browning blades, bespeak-
Ing death, after an unrelenting fight.
I know it’s spring. Because the breath I take
Fills up my lungs with clean and simple air.
The kind that washes soul and hands and feet.
The bitter winter months know this, their fate,
Is now to fade and vanish, with my cares,
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