I searched for poems of spring.
Ponce de Leon seeks fountain of youth.
Alchemy? Holy grail?
Title for Brooklyn Bridge?
Pogo says the first sign of spring is winter.
But must winter enter in?
So heavy the tread of winter,
so light the touch of spring, that
the one inflicts on the other?
I want a verdant, blue poem.
Sunny, light as transparent green bug
en pointe on kitchen window,
but declaring her being to me.
delicate as the glimmering bug,
but as worthy,
spring for its own sake,
No trespassing, poets,
with somber sound,
tempering delight with caution.
Leave such pedagogy to pedants.
I want no morals,
only the heady frilly breath of
this newborn air.