Spring

Spring, when young men fancy a turn at love.
Women too, or there's no mewling harvest,
yuletide arrivals; secular and religious.
The seed grows, all the spring and summer long,
but the joy is in the panting planting
at least for some.

And for those whose turn has come and gone;
older men who look on in envy in March,
matriarchs jealous in the December cold,
Springtime comes with nostalgic tints
and the joy is in the shimmery memory
of younger love.