For the weathers control on us,

Stale branches stay still, glued to the air as the translucent breeze slips between the month old leaves.
The early march sun beats down so gently onto the melting snow piles.
Some touched by innocent animal footprints,
Some untouched, looking as pristine as they fell days before this.
The suns reflection off the white and soggy earth forces eyelids shut.
Something about the slightly warming breeze gives hope,
That a new season is just beneath the heaps of slush and frozen rose pedals.
It’s coming out;
Through the peaking patches of green and dripping lawn furniture.
We can almost taste the new air,
Brushing against our uncovered arms,
Giving us a chill that no longer sinks deep within.
It lingers ever so sweetly on our skin that has been thickening these past years,
Awaiting to peel away in the months to come.
A winter so cold calls out for a spring so warm.
And underneath these snowflakes
We reside;
Waiting for tomorrow’s morning to heat through these layers we’ve collected
Stripping us bare
Because isn’t that what yesterday is here for?
You can’t open your eyes to the sky when they’ve been closed to the ground.
We change with the seasons, and that’s the only constant that never falls out of line;
Because the clocks still tick,
The breeze still blows,
The sky still sweats,
You’re still you,
And I,
Still me.