Pale February

It tastes like spring:
like mud on shoes,
like the warm wind,
inviting bare arms and loose hair to play with.

It tastes like spring,
although ice in clumps still
stifles the ground
and imprisons the grass.

It tastes like spring,
like a 6:49 vernal equinox,
a balance in shades of green
and pale, pale pink.

It tastes like spring,
like tight buds testing the air
in pastel array,
hints of promises of longer days.

It tastes like spring,
like light fleece,
like early beach visits with
steaming sand and frigid water.

It tastes like spring,
like a sky that is blue
and righteous and dotted
with eager ivory clouds.

It tastes like spring,
like fledgling flowers straining
for their first breath of sun in too, too long,
like air heavy with birdsong.

It tastes like spring,
like love poems, and music, and smiles, and dancing, and a promise--
oh, a promise, a promise--
a promise that things will actually turn out okay for once and...

It tastes like spring.

It tastes like past sorrows.

It tastes like hope.