My spring is coming late,
With the first turf-fire’s scent
Heralding winter on the wind.
But still I sense a change,
A time of flower or bloom,
Warm and sure of self despite
Not knowing exactly what’s to come.

And so, as if ’twere random seeds
I’d thrown to carry on the breeze,
To land and grow in chances unforeseen,
So forth erupt new visions, thoughts and dreams
To decorate these pages that were clean.


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