The cold winter breezes are turning warm,

fading into the wet spring that I've always known.

A weight presses on my chest, lifting somewhat but always 


lingering like the humid morning fog on an early April morning.


Spring brings new life, they say.

Like an arrow being pulled back and let loose, we spring towards something greater.

But what if I'm the other part of spring?

I'm the spring that rains showers from dreary gray skies.

The spring that is warm, but always has the chill swinging in the breeze at night.


I'm the early spring. 

The spring that has just begun.

Where the sun shines for hours on end, then suddenly fades behind the darkness of a rain cloud.


And she's my summer. 

She's my endless amount of heat, warming my chilled bones.

The summer where in the morning, you can breathe deeply and be comfortable.

Where worries drift away on the waves of the lake.

Where even the rain is as pleasing as the sun in the sky.


I'm her spring, and after spring always comes summer. 

This poem is about: 


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