Archive
03/17/11
A Thousand Springs
This just-burgeoning spring, Something all too curious, disconcerting, perplexing is occurring: I seem unable to seize the season's ritualistic incipience —
Indeed, for my steadfastly divided attention, My apparent utter lack of awareness, I've failed to see the earliest crocuses break earth's surface,
Overlooked the metamorphosing of daffodils and forsythias, From nothingness into gorgeous, vibrantly pulsating yellows, Which beg the eyes of all, wide and far, to leap with lyricism.
Possibly, what could be going on, with my distracted mind, Is that I'm still falling deeply, inextricably in love, For the first time in a thousand springs, at least,
And that existing in this state of ecstasy's perpetual release Has blinded my senses, so that all they can register Is the blossoming, the flowering of the lady named Linda,
Who, in my garden, a timeless year and a half ago, Began blooming, with nature's gaze-embracing grace, Dancing on August's soft breezes, her beauty the air I breathed.
03/17/11
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