97/365: Spring Spring Spring Spring Spring
The snow will not leave,
and I miss things I once hated.
I miss dust ground into my shoelaces
in the dry before true summer.
I miss the brown before green,
when I am congested from snow mould.
I miss the smell of garbage
waving up from sun-warmed dumpsters.
I miss the yowl of horny cats
scrumming outside my back window.
There is only one thought left
in the winter that refuses to leave:
spring spring spring spring spring.