Some winters, like gnarled wounds, continue to fester deep into
the flesh of the year pushing away the rebirth healing of spring.
I like winter, the deep cold slumber of January, but I do not
like its sleeping carcass rolling over on the delicate flowers of April.
Enough is what April and Buttercups say and each buds receives a
hearty “Let it be so!” from the Dogwood and Cherry.
So I sit upon my recliner throne and pound my Apple scepter and
declare it spring and winter banished… and then I quietly pray to The Master of
us three.
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