A resolute and solemn march.
Winters bony fingers pinch my skin,Slap my cheeks, flick my ears.
The coiled spring desperately waits, holding back it’s potential,
A pregnant pause.
Spring is an embrace, a kindness.
Eager.
Beleaguered cupped hands receive meagreness for half the year.
Daffodils herald new beginnings,
But more importantly the death of old things.
In service of new growth, a brighter day.
The violent murder of a dictator.
Et tu, Brute?