Sprung

Until the pink dogwood bloomed outside my window
I did not see spring.
Only the white blanket of a brother
smothering her flowing skirt.

From frail, timid branches
Emerged her budding divinity,
often afraid to speak her mind.
Peaking from behind the frigid mess of yesterday's midnight.

I don't believe her plea of longevity.
She has lied to me in the past
and I am beyond feeling
or forgiveness.

I see her now. I try not to smirk
when frosted rain pelts her petals
to the expectant ground.
She and I knew this was the future.

I was right. Cold. Bitter. and I am right.