Saturday, March 6, 2010

Spring

soft songs of Crowded House dreaming
filter through this tracing paper screen,
as a wind blusters
in evacuated streets
on a rollercoaster of leaves

it is autumn. it is spring.

when Kew Garden awakes
crocus lawns sprawl
under Henry Moore’s watchful forms
that free-flow,
gliding through the feminine sub-conscious

it is spring. it is autumn.

so we fall asleep, hiding
catching daylight saved through enforced darkness
(and there are whispered conversations
of waking to sunshine in England)

it is autumn. it is spring. it is autumn. it is spring
it is spring. it is autumn. it is spring. it is autumn.

it is April.


(Again from 2008 Class. A weather poem, no less)