I don’t want it to be Spring

I don’t want it to be Spring

Because I was so comfortable being dead and all
I had settled into my lounge-chair of umber, ocher fallen leaves
Let my hair do whatever it wanted to do
And generally ducked out of the game

But now
You sing the song of daffodil and crocus
The song of peeper frogs too stupid to know it will freeze again
You sing a subtle subliminal chant
on the cherub-breath of this meandering zephyr

You pry your lighted fingers through my curtains
setting ten thousand motes aglow
You playfully
brush against my picture window
leaving noting to the imagination
You show me how life springs up though the mud

You assault my nostrils with sultry scents of awakening
You tug at my shirt like a fresh born pup
You touch me

You touch me and i was dead
Now i’m new

and somehow
that is enough

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

2 thoughts on “I don’t want it to be Spring”

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