Sometimes it is cold
in Spring. That’s the thing about the metamorphosis
from winter’s dormant kernel
to May’s vernal waking up:
breaking up, it splinters
into unexpectedness:
you cannot second-guess its
requisite conditions:
left with expectations born
of wistfulness, you hold onto
the cherished recollected
notions of another dawn,
another May – balmy
scented gentle day.
But this May morning’s gone
another way. It’s changed
the form. It isn’t warm.
.
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