The Spell is Breaking

A poem on springtime

I sit outside under a blanket of blue.
Birds sing without restraint,
sounding an alarm of joy.
As if the spell of winter was breaking 
and the dawn of spring was upon us.

Barren trees now dotted with white petals.
New life pushing through dry wood. 
The kiss of sun on cold skin and wet grass.
It feels like the old is passing away.
The dirt is beating with warm blood.
Something new is coming, once again. 
It feels like resurrection.