Monday, May 27

Bad Spring

So long winter’s breath hangs over spring
& paints a certain shade of streets grey
What followed a tricky wind
without warm a ‘pull your collar up’

Striving
these
trees,

they do the best they can & get nothing
for it but a tilt on their trunk their feeble
waking limbs—tiptoeing little buds—as
sleeping subjects they were up at their crown

The sum is
dismantled
blossom

the sprigs of their once clutched bond
broken & pinched over pink skin

The sum is dismantled blossom
blewn & blown collected in a
springful puddle

Wind tidied them
water reunited them
trembling fingernails

the sum is dismantled blossom
lucidly gathered;
before the bees could
polish them with fluffy
bums & fragile wings.

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