Spring’s a Whore (Sonnet)

This cold wet year, the Spring’s a fickle whore
Who turns upon her heel and strides away,
Indifferent to how we prepared her bed,
So happy in her first warm sunny day.
She left us anyway, with aching backs,
Achilles’ tendons stretched and arches sore,
The few small crocus flags she left behind
Just making us lust for her even more!
She will come flouncing back eventually,
And we should then reject her out of hand
For faithlessness, deception, unkind heart,
Embracing Winter’s constant cold wasteland.
But more fools we, we’ll run to her embrace
At our first sight of her bright-painted face!

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About janemwoodman

Singer, writer, restaurant reviewer, urban farmer, devoted lover of my husband....old and getting happier all the time.
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