March 1st

(New Spring)

If Spring feels anything,
but ephemeral,
it isn’t Spring.

The hidden moons unhinged.
There’s so little time,
to extinguish the needs of the flowers.

Greens that send hygiene running.
Morning allergies I’ll never get back,
quite the same.

Nobody in bedrooms,
Empty offices.
Avenues of blossoms,
trails to childhood, trails to eternity.

The art of no self-control,
living in my nostrils,
breathing for the joy and warmth,
of great fragrance, of fresh light.
The melt is a gesture of freedom,
as the thaw understands.