An Ode to Spring

Proserpine awakens,
To a crystalline, lonely cold
“My love, my buds need flourish”
She so eagerly told
“Come back the sixth hour, lamb”
He’d mutter in distain
To which she’d agree, intertwining her fingers,
Antitheses conscious her tardiness with be impossible to explain
As so, she prances and frolics,
Birthing leaves of green anew
The wisps of baby’s breath flourish
In the song she tenderly blew
Dame’s fingertips coax the peaking buds from their tomb
Her lover, without her presence,
His decaying skin begins to gloom
Her whisper puts petals and willows alike in trance
As she awakens them from a solitary winter
With her oh so rekindling, chastely dance
As whom, not for a moment, could ever deny the spring skin
Of the lovely, enchanting, ethereal Pluto’s kin?

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