The sharp, bright chill of spring is in the air,
And, though the brilliant sun shines everywhere,
No warmth upon our barren skin we feel,
Remembrance of past winter’s cold is real.
Although the apple tree is full in flower,
New springtime blooms emerge each; every hour,
All emerald green the grasses meet our eye,
Beyond horizon warmer winds are nigh.
Charge on dear Helios’ chariot and your fire,
Full forward bring the warmth of our desire,
Within your grasp our wanton needs you hold,
We wish once more to run in fields of gold.
Peter Lowell Paulson
March 27, 2012
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