Of Things we Might call the Touch of Spring


My mind is filled with Spring’s torrents
I bear it all again, like love
Or grief, budding maple boughs

Awake me from my mood
The first clean air, the sweet-smelling rain
O’ I am but a rock in a rising river

Pushed like a flood
Washed like a cry of the waters
Am I spring or me, I cannot tell

I am night and fog, I am veiled
Like drowsy light on my path
Where my footsteps dim and pearled
I come to the trance of empty streets
Why so hushed in morning before mirrored lights?
Glimmer and shake, here is majesty

I follow the current of beauty
And my throat knows it is not enough
That I should ache, and I should praise

Why am I crying so after love?
Instinct’s wonder and surprise
Has me caught again

I bear it all again, like love
Or gratitude, unsatisfied from above
I was not made to be satisfied

I was not made to be forever young
Spring is thus so quiet, spice and still
My head in white and topaz

Gets chills in the misty green
That aeons cannot fix
The stately dome of heaven

Inside of me, part witness, part doer
Beneath my restless stars
The cosmos pours into my gaping spring.

Photography Courtesy: http://browse.deviantart.com/art/make-a-wish-377449262