Spring seems to crack itself out of winter, the icy cocoon of languid dreams splitting open to reveal the breath of vernal longings within. The snow is piled in sticky mounds that just cry to be jumped in, but all around I hear water singing as it flows unhindered through the messy streets. For weeks now, my heart has longed for daffodils, some remnant of childhood that awakens as the buds quicken on the trees. I can't place the desire, but each time I walk by the stands of too bright flowers my eyes are searching even before the mind for the nodding yellow of daffodils. I have yet to find them, today instead I brought home roses, blushing blonds and flushed pinks and placed them amongst the curly willow boughs as if to placate my troublesome heart for just a moment. I have to admit, the scent of roses is a sensual pleasure to me, and I often find myself standing by them just to inhale their wet green fragrance. 

Yes I hear spring bursting through my laggard veins, cracking me open as easily as it does the ice on the river. What newness is to be found within I wonder as I struggle to find the energy to give spring it's due course.

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