The winter of our discontent has not yet been made glorious summer.
But the sun is warmer.
The mercury shows signs of creeping up out of the bowels of thermometer hell.
Spring seems less a theoretical possibility now, and more of an inevitability.
The cycle will bring birdsongs and sweet grass
long, languid days
sultry nights
a sheen of sweat on the soul's bronzed skin
the welcome scent of freedom
like a lover's breath hot against your cheek.
sj
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