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.