Spring is a coil when juices boil,
vines that spiral, a lust as viral.

It's the time when I was born,
after a salty summer dawn
when two tired ants stayed home.

Spring is the dawn of a hundred days,
an iris spilt a billion ways.

It's the water in the soil
heavy enough to float on oil.

It's the scent of trembling dirt,
the aroma of clean skirt.

It's the time to be and grow,
something every seed does know.
A little sunshine, a hint of snow.

It's a time to get your ***
and wash your sickle in the flow.
Iron rusts and so does blood
dust is really just dry mud.