Not all flowers come with thorns, not all draw blood if gripped too tightly,
this though, among so many other mental rumblings, coming into my head as I
wake from bed, stiff, excited, yet warmed by the warm air spring brings, the
new season firmly rooted after more than a month of dismal rain, pain bringing
with it pleasure, if we endure enough, the dead roses from the dead of winter,
replaced in part with other pleasures, other flowers, other of hearts, flowers
with which we might never part, I think, as ease from sleep into the welcome
warmer world, sunlight with its ever cheerful mood and always bright outlook,
streaming through the window as I wake, partake the days refreshment, the
rituals of morning giving away to those of the afternoon, the scent of New
birth sweet and in part yet dark too, as if the turf out of which spring
springs, no thorns to prick our fingers on yet just not pure joy
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