Springtime
Mary Winters
You’re not a “spring person” --
April not the “cruelest month of all”;
just over-swelled, frowzy,
nose-holding harbinger of gamey
months ahead; forced marches to a
fiery beach, grave-chill indoors.
Too much bursting forth, too many
colors, too much sunlight in which
nothing can hold up; better a
dirty November Tuesday, overcast
Christmas, March roaring in a
stay-put lion. Those trees in
May explode such thoughts:
the Ten Commandments are there to
be broken and this time
you’re really going to do it --
pink-decked trees one after another,
perfect for miles and miles --
Park Avenue yesterday a
philanthropist’s vision: the
best of all possible worlds.
