I mistrustfully
tread upon
after fevered sheen
of late-
spring rain—
your greenness
now reaches
too far toward
the corners
of the conspicuously
consummate;
my feet find
your flourishing
far too flawless,
far too broad
to be pretty
or balanced; In fact,
I wobble, when struck
by the thought,
with the doubt
that such
lushness
could exist, since it's
far too unlimited
to have ever
been started.
