The chillness of spring winds call out to me, expecting me to meld into the hazily tangled horizons of an evening summer.
Mired in conundrum, I heed to it anyway.
Flowers bloom fresh and the unlucky ones are crushed by callous walkers sauntering on the sidewalk.
I'm petrified wood — excavated from the heat of the earth, my roots spreading into its core, and my hair blossoming like a forest filled with wild flowers in cherry red. The winds lilt me like a leaf on autumn's end.
I run around in circles and the scent of the flowers follow me like dog's tail.
And just like that, Spring sprung up from winter's sleep.