In almost-spring, the trees green

the bare branch tips barely while

others feign death like lovers

reluctant to leave bed’s warmth.

I resist most change until

it has already occurred.

It rarely changes that much,

that I must not plan dinner.

Although time’s rituals resist

alterations, the stitches

still fray from everyday use.

I am not much different.

Yesterday was warm and wet;

today cold, windy and clear.

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