You cloud my head with thoughts every hour,
keeping me guessing for what you will bring.
I hope you will deliver new flowers,
and healthy grass for my pale toes to cling.
New budding trees just around the corner
will bring shade to the old paint-chipping shops.
The loss of the cold will heal the mourners,
and change their sorrows from seed to tall crops.
Wind will carry the now re-born crawlers
through the orchards with their colorful wings.
Poor men will roam the street for spare dollars,
letting ladies pass, to the street they cling.
I think of spring and all of its offers,
though I do not look forward to coughers.