spring sleeps under the slick-sweet canopy
we’ve fashioned to wrap ourselves in
like Sunday’s newspaper.
Her eyes are mired now, with sticky gunk;
the heady viscosity of many month’s rest,
soon to be sponged away
with warm water and cotton, smeared lovingly
in the early morning rays, watery,
dew-drop smiling.
Her air is stiff, and the wind has a bite
but as golden heat seeps, making tie-dyed swirls on the insides of my eyelids,
I sincerely hope that I may see her again soon.