WITHOUT SPRING

BY MELANIE ROSE GAZVODA

WITHOUT

Spring

SHE IS THE panacea, bandaging all of winter’s wounds, I walk alongside her in the park to the bustling bee sounds.

She is a sun-filled hour-glass that comes and goes. The voice of a robin’s mellifluous singing flows.

She is a reawakening. I beckon for her arrival, Newborn ducklings are dependent on her survival.

When she cries her teardrops are grounded freckles, Collapsing her eyelashes like pink peony petals.

She sways in the sprinkled mess, Splashing the overflowing pools of liquid excess.

Her irises are the colour of periwinkle lilacs, A twisted supernova stellar parallax.

Her tangled tresses scatter in a fresh breeze, Admits a picnic of red wine and cheddar cheese.

Joy would be an understatement to when I see her, A four-leaf clover, teeming with succour.

She is vulnerable like a short pastel skirt, exposing bare legs, Giving the feeling of finding hidden chocolate gold eggs.

She walks barefoot on uncut gentle grass, Moving light and lively with chassé.

She is unforgettable, and the dirt underneath your fingernail, A swift bunny’s breath and the wind in my sails.

As colourful, and bright as a canary freesia, A decorated ivory shell that gives you the opposite of amnesia.

She grows on you like a new maple tree, I am a fool for this sweet pea.

Tulips tower, but she never stands in their shadow, Because she grows, like a vernal budding meadow.

Although she is ever-changing, she remains the same, She is the spring and eternal sunlight that shall never fade.