zebrasindenver

And here it is this violent wind,

 knocking at my door again,

bringing you and your person,

your bags of hopelessness left at the door as you walk so slowly in.

Fall into my arms, and out of your own heart,

you are a mess and i am barely able to string myself together,

 for just a month has past without a word on your behalf.

But the flowers are beginning to grow,

and tomorrow is spring.