I am the egg waiting to hatch. I am the dry bud on the blighted branch. I am the lush green grass waiting to be walked on by bare feet that, for now, hides under the dirty ash-colored snow.

I am the promise that Spring will bring. I am a warm yellow Sun, hung-over by winter. I am the season of content and temper, disheveled still with lingering discontent and distemper.

I have life and hope and warmth and youth and sex and urge and joy to spend. I wait to be uncovered, recovered, discovered.

But not quite yet.

SS