by Kevin T McEneaney
for Clifford at 93
I love the ambiguity of Spring:
forecasters can’t ever be accurate
since puffy clouds contain their own whimsy
while the landscape of an early May morn
arrives half-deceased amid blooming buds.
Likewise, earth is both soft and adamant
with marshy pools of reflecting sunlight,
waterfalls rush-spilling foam over rocks,
birds tweeting territory or love songs,
daffodils shivering in morning breeze,
surprise cold nights that nip the tops of leaves.
The older a man grows, the more lovely
Spring appears in its green intimacy.
