For nineteen more days,
it’s still spring,
still wobbling newborns
stuttering into
wicker-legged lambs 
and still surfacing flora
releasing petals,
like the breath held
in the eyes of storms
and solace of sunshine.

For nineteen more days,
it’s still spring,
still your wearied palms
calming me into
subdued smiles
and still my flowering worries 
asking ‘why,’
like the mantra repeated
in prolonging silences
and minds already lost.