When winter's frosty mornings
Fail to sheet slippings
Boughs all rise
Sighing
Sprightly they green
Grandly they deem
awaitened spring
no more a lonely dream
And colours will abound
And happy echoes sound
As into sky burts little songs
From little fluffballs round
Then the golden plumes
come bursting forth
in an explosion of yellow humes
Pollen counts give porth
To noses running, sneezing.
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A place where mottles and shards can be puzzled.
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