A concrete block beckons me
To sit, to rest. To watch:

The thunderheads form in the distance
White lumps of mashed potatoes
Strewn throughout the sky
They never grow nearer

Wisps of wind come in like waves
Hauling hints of spring time warmth
The sun never shining, yet illuminating
The whole atmosphere still

Thick carpets and layers of green
Extend their grasps to the edge of the horizon
Clutching what could disappear into the sky above

Birds sing soprano and the melody trills
A clash of the most unusual sounds. Bitter.
Yet melodious in its own mysterious way

A concrete block beckons me
To sit, to rest. To watch:
The world morph into spring