Little flecks of rude spring
hang, like some
crescent hallucination
in the still-
lidded pupil of
intransigent Winter—
the dismal old man
who yet lies
lies stubbornly sleeping in the doorstep
shivering in the death-throws
of his raw frenzied dream.
These mornings, the green dew clinging
to everything's well-
defined outline
was still over-promised;
and yes, the blue afternoon
skies remain under-delivered
and in serious need
of reheating. But the blazing
plum red evenings—emphatically now
not arriving 'til 7
and already overly ripe with their
own tender associations—definitely won't be
undersold.
