One would think that after all this time, there would appear a consistent amount of warmth coming from the skies. But I’m still here, just watching the newly greened tops shivering in the wind, all on the outside of my most recent window wall. Back then I would encounter spring for the first time behind my back, roasting from the sun’s rays shining right through the glass. I had seen the changes of the buds below me, growing older to the point of utmost heavenly bloom. And then me leaving it be for the summer. It’s different now. Perhaps in a better way than ever before. Right here I watch from total comfort. The sun not upon me, but warmth from the building repairing the cold’s damage. Still I see all on the outside, sitting back against a pillar, legs stretched out before me on the square cushion couches. And so I watch. Those far off trees. Their newly waxed leaves, reflecting off a bright shimmer. And I ask, Where is the warmth? It’s been gone for awhile. For the longest time. Once, every few weeks, it pops up in almost unbearable bursts. How can this trickery continue? How many more hopes give rise to failure? Perhaps all is mistaken. Life will move forward. The leaves will break the cold barriers. The blooms will not fail to attempt one more recreation of what spring should be. Summer will sometime appear.