Spring left a note. It is not coming back.
Another spring, impostor, may be here,
May look and sound and smell like spring, sincere,
Display the right credentials, have the knack
Of daffodil and cuckoo, but it won’t
Be spring. Which left. Which took its green away
And said it loved us, but it could not stay.
They say they are forever, but they don’t
Make promises, the crocus and the leaf,
Or mean to. By Be patient, they mean Grief
Comes in a wicker basket, every day.
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