Spring looks like everything
a puddle, a mess, explosions and leftovers
that didn't get used the year before.
Tempting fate and fashion,
she drags out that same green dress,
yellow handbag, phlegmatic temperament.
Men like Spring better,
they suffer more in the grey
when white leaves of frosted paradise
cloak women in halos and fur.
The plow calls to you, doesn't she?
Great and honest desire to make something.
Ask her to prom, ask her to dance,
before she leaves you again.
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