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
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)