Unquiet, the yellow sun bursts excitedly through my window,
Already, in mid-March,
At April's softened slant;
She beckons me to walk
Down by the old churchyard
Count the shooting crocuses
Impatient as adolescence
But I cannot oblige her,
So, as if in consolation
She sets to fire all of the
Exuberant flecks of dust
That dance above my floor
In the cold, late Winter's air.
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