Spring
Forward
Wait for the turning point; we’ll reach it soon
And the icy fingers will lose their iron grip,
Pulling back from the pain of an invisible searing
edge,
Raw and peeling… sunburnt.
The air will be thick with a fragrant blossom-haze
Intoxicating us with whimsically dizzy fantasies
Of infinitely rolling oceans of ivory clouds,
And we’ll lie upon a park bench,
Watching the floating tides break upon piercing slivers…
A million resplendent splinters of molten gold.
They’ll glisten and glitter; they’ll excite us with the
warmth
Of tantalizing promise
And the unbearably cruel sting of January will fade
Into memory; a passing recollection of a harsh, gray
world,
To scarcely be believed as the sun sets on July.
