i call this spring

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the aura of the hour is so dense
yet bright enough, that even
the darkest days of winter
would have summer waves seeping through.
i call this spring.

the way
the raindrops are so reluctant
to touch on a windshield
makes the naked hope inside of me
second guess the soaken earth around.

like the coldness of old coffee
like the fearless eyes' sobriety,
the clouds can only hope that they
can be ready to be cast away.

and the sun can say its goodbye
to them and all the passers by,
and spring will not forget me
because i am what it hoped for me to be.





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