You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming

Pablo Neruda

“No you mustn’t!” Old Winter cried.
But Young Spring laughed, 
And scatted broken crayon nibs 
of verdant green,
Above the sea of mud,
Until every gnarly elbow was sprigged 
with a supple unripe bud.

“You won’t succeed amongst this death!”
The Pale Crone hissed before first light,
and capped the buds in icy breath.
But the youth warmed the earth
with early dawn, and defying her further still,
She hung a string of yellow bells 
on every frosty sill.

“What foolishness! You’ll soon learn
the error of your ways.”
Came a warning on the wind. 
But Spring couldn’t hear, she’d filled the air
with dancing notes, a merry life-giving tune,
unfolding leagues of vivid fronds,
to beguile her cousin June.