Have you begun
to notice? You never see
any luminous
pearls of moon-
ripened rain any-
more—or smell the relaxing
musk of nighttime lilac after;
in the morning,
you never taste
so much as a trace
of the sun's eternally
benevolent combustion engine
at play on the lush dewy
skin of a raw
strawberry—
or hear the gleeful
tweet of clean
brown birds, still furrowing
their rounded able bodies
dry within their bowers.
They used to say—
it makes me
blush a little
to recall—something like:
"Spring is in the air,"
I think—but,
like all
such nonspecific
things,
now it's—
on the
internet.
