Nights remain aimlessly dreary,  rainy, and ho-hum, but the sun's warm rays fill every crevasse as the dew dries come first daylight

Flocks of grub-gorged morning birds and the unbounded wind under their wings can’t even keep up with the jubilee of these bonnet’s beaded seams 

When maytime arrives, muted tulips pop up like opening blushed umbrellas, colored to match spring’s abundance of joyful jars of jewel-toned jelly and jam. 

All the while, a kit’s foot made of sherry-tinted chalk carelessly scrapes the ground, creating an echoing song of tic-tac-toe left behind with every step 

 Spring is open water, praise our angels

The eve of renewal wanders and strolls, as the sight of faberge eggs covered in gleaming fair amber rhinestones grace my memory

 Falling beads of confetti rattle around in the horn of a trumpet, humming a hymn with music written on the petals of a golden casted bouquet

Vintage Grandma-knitted baby socks in a in a basket in the attic that smells that same aged way

In an old house with spongy loveseats filled with aged yellow feathers in a weathered wicker frame.

 Spring is open water, praise our angels