What does a Birthday Boy do in Town ? Why of course – he takes some pictures and writes a poem
To his Sweetheart, Madame Spring
Spring, my delicate white to satin beauty
what can I trill and sing to thee tremulously
to invite your attentions and soft whispers?
Spring, do you reply saucy rouged with crimson fragrance
and warmth running through your veins –
or is that twisting tendrils of my ardent chains ?
Spring, shifting with your thrill winds
you sparkle and swim in rapturous lights
– bask I breathtaken outside your delights?
Spring, I glance within the accents of your scents
blinking before a swinging, whirling girl
– are those shades of dew or joyous ruse ?
Spring, Spring are those bulbs and buds quivering
yet to gesture their right to bloom –
or are they boils of bubbling toils and trouble ?
Spring, Spring is that you in chrysalis forming
taking new shape, adding plates, a sinecure shell ?
Or is this the ever time and inevitable … ?
Spring, Spring to what reflections do I cling ?
Two those I see or those I wish of thee ?
Am I just myself deluding ?
Spring, Spring howl too thistling no more
Your cry and hues have turned chartreuse
Into another world of sycamore.
Images courtesy of Today in the Town’s Gardens and Backalleys
