springtime

i guess it's probably spring, because in the early evening
when the sun is stretching it's last light from behind 
houses and trees and clouds there are birds singing
cooing, like quietly
sobbing
old 
men.
and a burning urge to run and fling myself about
begins to bubble in my heart and the ache of a locked up joy
beats it's tired head against the prison bars of my rib cage
an ache to love
with
reckless 
abandon.
and sadness like little embers glows softly at the dying of day
and sends little whispers of smoke, the traces of a vague hope
that someone might share the lavender scented evening
and maybe the night
beside
(within)
me.