The Last of Winter    

The world must be as shy as me, to draw
out winter like anticipations of
a first kiss. I am ready for the thaw,
will gladly own may even be in love,
but as her shoulder fills my heart with awe,

it's frozen as her nations, lips apart,
hands held at holsters, waiting far too long.
While kissing cures the tortures of a heart
and every year the first heard robin's song
assures us of the spring about to start,

what recourse has the world? When fools do rush
the world goes round—but the denaturing
of nations keeps them frozen in a crush
where chilly coyness trumps the lust of spring.
They eye each other, but they only blush.