This Solitude of Spring
I’ve seen the Moon of April
Mother and pathos of Spring
An evening with out Angels
An inner spirit of so much Thirst
A fish-scale sunrise, a blinding twilight
The passion of anticipation
I sing a serenade to mass meaning
The souls as chief metaphor of celebration
I’ve seen the tip of the fragrance of change
And felt it beneath my skin
My genes mutated to accommodate
Too many references, so many heroes!
Late hymns to West coast muses.