In Between Seasons
Suddenly, spring was all but here.
It was so near, we could tell it wanted to bespell us,
With the vividness of Sistine Chapel ceiling hues,
Compel us to smell its glorious arboreal efflorescences,
Even though they were of unscented ornamentals.
And yet, something, a numinous agency,
Kept holding it ever so slightly, shyly back,
Almost as if politely apologizing
For its presumptuousness, in leading us to believe
That winter's demise had finally arrived,
When, indeed, experience and nature's omniscience
Reminded spring that late March and early April
Can be predictably fickle, histrionic, even barbaric.
Tonight, we lie down, under blankets, again,
Counting, in our dreams' gardens,
Flowering pear, weeping-cherry, and crab-apple trees
Decorating the air, with their extravagant blossoms,
Hoping no predatory freeze or snow
Will take advantage of their innocence, their fragility,
Deprive us of the year's most voluptuous seduction.
03/25/09 - (2)
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