Spring's put on a dampening chill
to tamp down hope before it spills
too soon. The sparrows still feel it,
as they wash in slants of splintering
rays. The gulls play to another,
duller air. They reel through steel gray
patches, and complain to a catch
of wind in their most unappealing
voices. I won't listen, or I'll miss them,
the season's softest lines. They bud
and bloom and rhyme with a spray of wishes
that crocus up to my mind betraying
the hand behind poems greater than mine
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