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’


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

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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