The wind is ever constant,
in subtle waves, it moves;
it's felt and yet unseen,
invisible, breezy grooves.

Magic fingers in the air,
weaves its tapestry;
quite refreshing to the face,
that knows but does not see.

The air is sweet in Springtime,
the kiss of genesis;
beginning every March,
ending in June's bliss.

Weep not for winter's death,
embrace instead the Spring;
that quickens every step,
in what the season brings.

The hint of love in blossom,
the touch of day-time showers;
the scent of perfume in the air,
from sunny, blooming flowers.