Leaves, trees, and in their wakening in Spring’s thaw there lies a dream lived. In no death of green but what laid in sleep, now before my eyes.
That bit of life that Winter could not slay. No frost, no chill wind, no grey sky sundered from sun would bear any measure of what this moment has become.
Grass beneath my toes. Less the warm jackets, and tomorrow, more of the same.
I think the trees may agree.