laughing hysterically
on the hillside,
shedding its cold
like the constriction
of winter clothes,
running naked
out the door.
The pregnant sun
is about to deliver
spring, and words
written before winter
poke through the snow,
some having rooted will flower,
some will not. As usual
the crab apple tree
awakens
like a beautiful princess
unfrozen from her last dance
blossoming once more
and I am jealous
all over again.