Spring
These are the bad days.
Cold and dark, they perch
On the chest, pushing down
And the only hiding
Is to hide inside and wait
For green spring to take you
By the hand, ready
To be a shoot again.
To be held between two hands
And be told stories
Of how to grow again.
To use spring to begin again
Like a tightly coiled seed
Ready to spring,
Eager to break out
Of the protecting shell.
[First published: Poetry Nottingham International Vol 54 No. 1 Spring 2000]
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