Winter was near to end.
He dreamt of the farm. He dreamt of spring—of summer and autumn too; of her fair of skin at spring’s begin; the way it changed, like woods and world, in live of the follow-seasons: fairness given color-tan; freckles, like dappled flowering of flesh, breaking on her skin; colors of the world, leaf of the trees, vivid-brilliance of all in the living seasons.
He thought of orchard-stop on way of drive, southward, from city to wait of fields and woods; cider’s rest upon her lap, fruit and taste of her nectar covered. Affected, both’s sudden urge to be arrived—together-alone again in home’s hide amongst the trees—not waiting, fast and spirited, into naked wild-free; love’s make at evening shade in golden-fall of the glory-sun alight upon their bodies through wide of window’s view.
World, again, was waking. Green tint and sign of life hued upon the lawn.
World was waking, and so was he, desirous, for vivid-brilliance of the living seasons.