she tells me stories of where she's been by:
sailing through the pine needles on an evergreen,
making the flag pole clatter,
rustling the grass,
tussling hair and grazing pink cheeks,
in and out of open doors and hearts.
as i listen to this myth of spingtime,
i wish i was as free as the wind:
open to boundless travel,
endless romances as she flies by
so many different people and places.
her stories are fantastic and comforting,
like any well-weathered spring morning.
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