Pigs and Spring
Spring decends on me like a pig, surrendering to the pleasure of its mud,
I wallow naked and uninhibited in her coming.
I thrash and flail and flop in the puddle of her seduction,
worshipping in some idiotic, flopping, frenzied welcome.
Surely, she must wonder of the fool in me.
It doesn't matter. I am caked in the mud of pure content
and I will cling to my muddled jubilation,
until Winter comes again, to steal the mud
or freezes my perfect puddle.