And then a warm day in March
(this twentieth day of March),
decides to tap her gentle fingers playfully to my shoulder.
She teases me that she will once again spin into
a piece of my fragile fateful future.
If she will ever know that all is not always new,
That all is not fresh,
that all is not green.
She betrays the day before her,
now non- existent;
Cold yesterdays cannot casually be swept away as a kite
with her first whisper…
She taunts me with memories of windswept hearts,
classical music, pastels, cold rains, and swaying forsythia.
Her mystery becomes trumped by empty plates and missing chairs,
as laughter echoes on glances that are absent this year.
Her swirling stance stiffens
and her comfort all too brief,
As she blows her promise of tomorrow
across my aging face once again.