And then–

it approaches

like a child at ten,

his years ahead

like unspooled thread,

unfolding flowers

rising from the socket

of wise ground, patted down.

White melts,

green blades peak,

and faces press their noses

to cold windows

for their last winter breath,

circles forming on the glass

with no fog left to gain,

only eyes to the trees above,

approaching the season

they like most,

in rebirth.

April 22, 2014