The spruce boughs shake
like rattlesnakes
as I brush past them, down the path.
Winter's fighting for his life,
but Spring has her hands
clenched firm around his throat.

T-shirt clad, in the dead of night,
 I revel in the raindrops
and I can't help but wonder
will February showers
bring March flowers?
Will my Dandelions return,
before the Spring solstice?

Warmer than usual
is what they say...
The hot breath of our death
is what they mean.

If half of what the doomsayers say
truly comes to pass
(we all know that it will)
one loop will feed the other
as the grasslands burn,
and the icecaps become fairy tales...

Those ****** Chinese
and their self fulfilling hoax's.