Your serenade makes the leaves twirl about,
Twirling and twirling and twirling
As if their feet just can’t stop dancing,
The blades of grass running across the ground,
In mindful chatter,
As if time is of the essence.
Where are you all off to?
With outstretched arms, trees reach up to be caressed,
Their fingers barely clasping around your tresses,
Their brittle branches falling off here and there,
You move on.
You move on, your voice bellowing,
Brushing up against windows, tapping on wooded floors,
Knocking over garbage cans and garden swings,
Whipping up hair, hats, and people.
They barely stood a chance.
Is this finally the start of Spring?
Hardly. Snow is on its way.