Spring Song

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 from winter bondage
like soufflés released as in held breath
while the world teeters in a fool’s hands,
narcissus bulbs loud with blather foul the air
from high in the tower the potentate gloats

while those with illegal hands stoop below,
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.
There is a Yes after the final No,
an urgency that persists, a pod
opening here and there, 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,

a cycle saving me from ever ending.