March 1st

Grey skies
drizzle down.
Drab dew
on the ground.

Thyme still
holding on.
Small sprigs,
still taste strong.

Quite traffic
passing by.
Birds and animals,
acting shy.

Stifled air,
no escape.
Creating yawns,
within its wake.

Blank minds.
Tired tones.
Spring-time longing
within my bones.

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