Hidden in barren boughs

iced berries, like frosted rubies,

await the raw sunshine warmth of the day.

They spatter the monochromatic blandscape

of a winter in post viral modernity,

dancing and laughing in the breeze.

The gathering sun articulates their inevitable doom

as it arcs across a pale cerulean sky,

cut glass crystal crowns trembling in sweet anticipation.

Ah, but they go out in a blaze of scarlet glory

long leaving remnants on our jaded retinas,

a bright red smile to get us through to spring.

Crimson silent expectation of hope.