Open wide the windows, and tear the dirty screens down

it’s coming.

That wild wicked wind is blowing away the last of winter

the last of the cigarette butts from the melting filthy snow.

The clouds are zipping by

daring you to keep up.

I brave the winds and rip off my scarf

as my hair gets yanked from its roots.

My lungs are filled and I scream into the air

it’s coming, it’s coming, it’s coming!

I let the tornado sneak in and whip my papers about my desk

casting a clean white across my floor.

A new beginning

it’s coming

can you smell it?

The smells of fresh soil, of new grass, of onions budding in the gardens.

I lay down pressing my face to the dirt

and just breathe.