the wind she plays dangerously with me,
she picks up leaves and chucks them, hardly
missing my vulnerability,
but just then, she softens her voices
leaving me tense, listening and with no choices,
walking is too far while waiting for the next furry,
oh the turbulence of Spring brings up
the dead leaves of Winter to over-fill my cup
with worry, some woe, some wanted need, to go
and yet you don't know her beauty-in-this-Poetry, it does not show,
and I know not where, to find The Source as such.
well with winter on its way out, west coat style, but that's not what this is about.
