Mottled sunshine spills through my frosty window as songbirds play in the snow. It is spring, yet I feel it not. For winter has yet to release me from its icy grip.
And what does foolish spring know of renewal and bursting forth? What can this feeble season do when caught in winters cold embrace, unable to perform its oft-rehearsed dance?
And what of springs hope? I feel it not. What of its promise of fragrant animation that seems eternally veiled by my dark mood?
Spring is for children, yet no child am I. Spring is for lovers, no I think not. Spring is for fools, who need hope when it is dashed. Spring is for the vagabonds, weary from the cold.
Oh spring, foolish spring, take your bits of things and be gone. Id prefer coarse speech to your hopeful, gentle aspect.
You are an illusion; the promise you peddle is for fools. Take your waxing sunshine and your lengthening of days and your pretense of joy and be gone.