At the depth of Winter’s dark dormancy, a spark–a glimmer of hope, the return of life. Quietly, without fanfare, bud’s blossom bursts.

In a forest of lifeless branches, a single sign of promise. This beacon of hope springs. As if telling the cold forest wood that again summer’s soft green covering will return. Without subtlety or conformance, the bud explodes color into its lifeless surrounding. We are alive!

The cool air hit like the kiss of an estranged lover
At attention, neck hairs rose and fell
This creeping, elliptical tingle
Tinged with anticipation and sadness
Announcing with  sensual overload
the end of hated heat (whose shadows cast
fondly with warm whisper)

Welcome old friend.