The date has passed, the calendar says that it’s here,

Spring has sprung and you have nothing to fear.

But as I look at the ground still covered in white,

I think to myself, “well this can’t be right.”

So I feel the air and look to the sky,

Could they be wrong? Could they have lied?

I want to be out, out on the trail,

Where the grass is greener, even at the pace of a snail.

Step after step, I walk on the ground,

My footsteps advancing, the only fair sound.

But instead here I sit, and the trail grows old,

It will soon be warm, or so I’ve been told.