When she comes, she is so fragile and pale,
Egg-shell thin, and the whites of her eyes so
Viscous you can see through her. Should you trust her?
Is she an angel or some tricky old ghost?
She kisses your face with the sweetest breath,
And so you dissolve into her and trust in dewdrops,
Tulips, and the crocuses that sit crouched between tracks
Like little bandits ready to jump your train and plunder your heart.
When the rain does come, the long cold days you feared so much,
You feel a wilting, a flagging of your hope. So it wasn't real.
Yes, she's a tricky ghost after all. But don't give her up.
It wasn't the last Spring your heart will ever feel. She'll be back again.