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 5^th 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.