Spring's Not Real (Late IP: Solstice)
Spring is a sort of wishful thinking,
a door half-open, unable to decide.
It lures unwary saplings, then puncturing
welcome with frost, wavers uncertainly
between sluggish winter and something more vital
until solstice puts an end to all that nonsense.
Summer sings out exuberant embarrassing fecundity
and could be turns to what is, not
soft dream but cacophony.
I'd still prefer the reverie, the half
unfurled promise. But spring's not real.
A maybe, a walking fish
no more a season than an egg is a bird.