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.