Friday, May 4, 2012

Spring sprung to early – and too late




The early spring erupted on the small cove
From out of nowhere,
New York City aglow in sunlight across the water
A cubist painting reflected in the choppy waves
You’re not supposed to feel this way this early
The throb of some mysterious urgency
Only spring can spring on you,
An animal instinct that you can’t resist
Or even satisfy, just endure,
Hoping that the you don’t get sucked up
Into that vortex of confusion that comes
With each bursting bud.
It isn’t fair that such things happen so late
In the winter of life
When life offers no more real springs
Just the memory of them
And the lingering scent of budding flowers
Whose pedals fall
One by one into the cold water
And drift away.

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