The skies will return to the baby blue,
Which they were before the horrific storm.
The grass will soften with the morning dew,
And the sun will come up, inviting and warm.

The birds will sing and sore in the indigo sky,
The delicate flowers will open their buds.
Cats sit under oaks with hungry eyes,
The feeling of spring blossoms with new, passionate loves.

The rain drips quietly from the aged water pail,
Leaving tiny wet rivers down the hardened cherry.
The lonesome cry of a morning gale,
The beautiful lovers never grow weary.

It’s odd how spring’s cool breeze can bring
Glorious marvels, such beautiful things.