Well Sprung.

Well Sprung

When the season
poets love the most
breaks the crust of ice
and lifts its emerald head
above the vapors of
winters last foul breath,
then all of God's creatures
stir in their tiny cavernous hollows
and rustle like the skin
of a caterpillar
shedding it's cocoon,
to emerge into a metamorphism
from last years corpses

into a sea of color and a breath
so fresh that teases flower heads
from hiding into another growing season,

taste the sweetness of dew on crocus,
as soft breezes blow apple petals
like tiny boats into the gutter streams
formed by the rains that seed the spring
that overflows the hearts of all
who love this world....
when it is well sprung!







Tears-raveling on!

the rain
without refrain
distracts my brain
and dulls the pain
there is
almost a pattern
in the splash drops
dancing across
the window
of this greyhound bus
forming long
trail ways
that make sense
as the world flies
by in a blur,
where loneliness
is my song
it's syncopated beats.






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