Winds whips us
Like chastised school children
Red-faced, we breath deep cold Spring’s air.
Before the next gust catches us unawares,
We run. Shoes tumble, dog paws gallop
Over hill and grass and weeds.
Up the slope, up toward yellow house,
Up toward bushes, Up toward last year’s roses
There, standing erect with tight heads,
An orange bloom clinging tightly to its petals,
A miser of sorts unwilling to part
With her new spring clothing.
For a moment, we pause
Until the next burst of wind
Blows us away.
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