down by the hollow, wintry twigs await their april leaves but for now, scrape my ankles as i brush by, looking up, around, anywhere for new airs. men cycle past me down the only path, pumping their legs, "on your right" yes, they've found them. my cycle renews. how shall i fill it? here, in this patch that brings such melancholy peace? or in my home, my self, patch be ******.