It comes alive with the brutal first steps of spring
United in promises and predictions the forgiven heralds sing.
Those modest winter whispers coloured in,
Private dreams intensified by budding ecstatic voices.
But last summer’s memories blind us to new choices
We cannot greet what we await while fearing to open our eyes.
Still, the blame is never ours to claim,
As time ticks by, and clouds rearrange the skies,
We ask in weary voices,
When do promises turn to lies?