It is that time of the year,
they've come back to check on me,
with the certainty of spring,
they'll make their way here.

Their little pilgrimage of woes,
soon to befall me.
I can feel them in my bones, behind my eyelids.
They are near.

A wound that festers,
Never to heal,
The tender flesh,
that scabs conceal.

It is again that time of the year.
For they've been famished, naught to eat.
No use delaying they're here,
So let them come, be done with it.