Spring is an awkward age –
she is transition, change,
the taste of heat but the smell of rain.
She is braces, bunches, tiny daisies
freckling a face.
She is the puzzle-pieced laugh
through a gap-toothed smile,
the hands that touch
through a broken space.
Winter has taught her
not to fear the dark,
but she still remembers
what it is
to be lost;
hence, she is little flowers
peeking shyly
at the frost.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
Spring is an awkward age –
she is transition, change,
the taste of heat but the smell of rain.
She is braces, bunches, tiny daisies
freckling a face.
She is the puzzle-pieced laugh
through a gap-toothed smile,
the hands that touch
through a broken space.
Winter has taught her
not to fear the dark,
but she still remembers
what it is
to be lost;
hence, she is little flowers
peeking shyly
at the frost.