Spring
Spring - poem
Spring is on its way. I can taste it.
It curls along the wind
And I lick the air and think,
‘It’s almost here.’
It’s in the sun peeking through the clouds,
In the snowdrops pushing their way to the light,
In the clunky sound my wellies make on the road,
The whistle in the wind that isn’t as cold as it was last
week.
The fields have woken up,
The clouds are wringing themselves dry,
The trees are stretching, shaking off the frost
That has trapped them since November.
The colours are restored.
Greens and blues and yellows
Emerge from brown and grey and lifeless.
Even the house feels like it’s relaxing.
My wardrobe itches. The floral dresses and the orange
Converse ache to be released. They climb forward at the
Open door until it shuts and they settle back into the dark
space.
My toe nails beg to be painted.
My arms long to feel orange light on their pale blonde
hairs,
To be freed instead of encased in cotton. My legs dream
Of flip flops and sports shorts worn for no reason. I crave
the
Cool breeze and the warm heart of spring.
It’s on its way.
Ellen Victoria
@artawaytheworld
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