As the clutch of the frost begins to weaken,
The first delicate flower of Spring
Pushes its head from the cracked Earth.
When that flower comes above the surface,
It is given its rightful name
And told to lead a good life.
It reaches towards the faint fingers
Of life shining down from above,
As the sun peers blearily from behind the clouds.
And as the liquid of my thermometer
Slowly climbs the rungs of the ladder
That little flower begins to find its roots until
Petal by Petal
It opens itself up to the world.
Short green arms grow out from its centre,
And it begins to fill with colour.
Beautiful, some call it
Until one fateful day
The boot of fate
Comes crashing down
And that first flower of Spring
Is lost from the world completely.
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