Winter amassed his victories
With cold clear spears,
Lined along eaves;
Cannon clouds hurling
Swirling whiteouts,
Blades of wind rifling
Body armor.
But battles aren't wars.

Spring's cavalry
Comes charging.
We're flipping suns,
Pouring golden sweet rays,
And fattening-up
For the final on-slaught
Of a battle weary warrior.