Auburn horizons with a purple tinge.
Fields of once white snow grow colored creme de la creme.
Cinnamon trees mixed in.
White lights slow strobe on distant radio towers.
And giant concrete straws blow bubbles of steam
in long trains that fade into brown clouds.
Snow soft as down falls apart in breath.
A foot or so of depth.
Ice layer beneath that.
From so much unexpected rain.
Dropped fifty degrees.
In the short course of a single day.
And the purple horizon.
The pink sun rises.
The rain intends to stay.
The spring sun comes with vengeance, doesn’t it?
Full of memory, and contemptuous resentment.
As if to communicate the fiery sentiment,
how dare you turn the side of that oily adolescent face to me?
Where did you all find the strength to roll over the other mountainous cheek?
Like leaves only came to conceal shame and cower in shade.
Like flowers are gestures, jokes and tricks, vying to be the one
to show the sun a bauble, trinket, or color it did not know of before.
As if the whole sparking intention of nature was to express,
well, now there is more.
Yes, we turned away from you God, you flaming liquid blob,
you roiling chariot of fake yellow gold, but yet, turned back,
away from winter’s star spoiled black and cold mist mornings.
A choir of erratic voices, a billion years of genetically recorded choices,
all loud and delighted to be your wriggling little satellite,
make you proud being burned by light who escaped, temporarily,
into chilling darkness and felt a pale, frail,
sort of lonely happiness in your absence.
But when that full sun returns to shine against the living,
slapped unprepared while the trees are still bare,
it feels more like vengeance, than Spring, doesn’t it?
Slightly yellowed clouds. And slightly golden.
A large ever-present star burning beyond them.
Bright. Drawn back eyes light.
Shiny like the lyrics of a hymn.
Greasing up vapor blocked ridges like a raw egg
boiling across a charcoal color cast iron sky.
From clear and thick to white jiggling flap of skin.
Leftover from a different sort of better fed man.
Clouds grow loose. Less yellow. Less gold.
Only slightly cold. Like that veiled tender hymn.
Awaiting the bird-feathered, bubble-throated
pipe organ of spring to come crashing in.