No Gloves Trimeric

I’m busy now spring cleaning my heart, the temperate season has broken; Ready to melt the past’s bleak blizzard, let my soul be a fancied flower; The temperate season has broken, dry eyes rejuvenated by storms; A touch or teardrop can restore faith; Ready to melt the past’s bleak blizzard, throw out the heavy clothing buffer; I’ve no gloves, now will you hold my hand? Let my soul be a fancied flower; Toxic weeds are gone from my garden, there’s more room for what I truy need.