Spring

If spring were a woman,
she would be arrayed in yellow and blue and red,
not the colors of daffodils and hyacinths and irises,
but blue for waning winter days,
the yellow of daylight savings time,
and the angry red of stormy skies.

Her scent would be the fresh-ploughed earth,
her breath the breeze of melting snow,
and in her eyes of heavy clouds
would be the promise of verdant fields.

If spring were a woman,
she would be a gifted woman, indeed!