Betwixt and between seasons always makes me restless. Neither fully here nor quite there yet. I guess you might just call it my own March madness. Nothing a bit of poetry and pink can’t cure, again… Oh do read on my dears!
One can’t force seasons to materialize, but in the meantime, one can lean on poetry, and dare to don pink hair, if only to bring Spring closer in spirit if not in reality. Imagine, with a feisty me, and the genius of Miss Emily Dickinson, that perhaps, this March will dissolve quickly into April. Soon.
A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period –
When March is scarcely here
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