Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Spring is a Perhaps...

Spring is like a perhaps hand, wrote e.e. cummings, arranging, rearranging…
without breaking anything, light and dark in vernal equipoise
yet unstill in the commotion of spring,
with all its myths rising like soufflés, exudates from winter bondage
released as in held breath
while the world teeters in a fool’s hands; narcissus
bulbs loud with blather and tweets fake and foul the air
from high in the tower while men and women

with illegal hands stoop below,
the illegitimate potentate above gloats and concocts headlines.
Truth shredded as confetti to be dropped on 5th Avenue snowing us
even as we are seeded then sprung like those wild new-born poppies splattering
the desert floor of Anza-Borrego. Fauvists at their outrageous easel
signify what Cummings called the great illimitable earth. That Yes.
after the final No. There is an urgency that persists even
in my season of creative lassitude, a pod opens here and there,
this March madness, the number of red lanterns on the coral tree
has doubled overnight to six. Startled this morning by the juicy pear
under the bruised green skin might save me from ever ending.

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