To illustrate the Spring,
And focus on the innocence of bright new leaves
Which cover a fresh landscape...
Is ignorance on my part--
To say that infantile flowers are so opaque as to mask
A yearning which returns like the perennials.
The clock is damned to tick forwards,
Never leaving its radial origins.
And salt is always to spill
Within the domain of a strict Father.
Never has there been
A master as sadistic as Destiny,
Who gives false crumbs (the real ones are abducted).
Fate, which wrings the neck of each Bleeding Heart.
Is opportunity lost once motif has rounded out?
I cannot learn to garden with a new sun.
I want back the seeds which were first blown away
By winter winds,
Then smothered by heat,
After being nurtured by the dantiest of Prima Ballerinas.
Each and every year,
My affection for the same (Unatainable?)
Claws its way out of the soil,
And the mulch which I have piled,
To bloom so sweetly
In my face.