March.

It was heat then -
Pressing through the seams of my jeans,
Filtered to pure liquid warmth
Poured through the bus window.
Each fibre
Curling and heating,
Fictional ants,
My leg roasting like those tiny
Subjected insect bodies
Of someone else's pointless science experiment.
I knew winter was over.
No more the crease of frost
On morning grass verges.
No more the itchy wrap of scarves.
Soon, the bloom of blossom,
Breathed down to carpet the streets.
Then come the bare arms,
Or the hope of that at least.
Bathed in banana yellows
And iris blues,
Feeding the minds
And quenching the eyes
So we'll forget what we were complaining about
For so long.
The bus rolled on,
The sun making tiny droplets of moisture
In the corners of my eyes
Which were born again,

And the bus rolled on.