observing mothers and fathers (and their habits)

So this is what heaven truly is? The first unseen breath of Spring
a tender, encapsulated touch meant only for their offspring.
Changing Father Winter’s fur into Mother Spring’s clothes.

His cold stone fists, the ones that molded the framework
for their children's crib, are met with her own warm, rooted hands,
the ones that grab rugged bedrock and cushion the dewy bed.

Raw buds begin to bloom with the new season, but Frost
(kin to Winter’s chill), laces their limbs with a glaze that leaves
their young children stationary in time, neverland babies. 

Until the sun brings Springs babies blankets, watching them
clutch to a dream long abandoned in the moon's haunted grin.
Once again, a mother is left to restore their children’s lively color. 

So this is what living truly is? Balancing on the wispy cusp
between the reminiscence of Father Winter’s unsaturated quilt
and the forethought of Mother Spring’s consoling embrace.