Spring Comes to the Mistress of the Obvious

Iridescence replaces winter's aerodynamics—
tripped, hooked, a fantastic arrow
rammed in the marrow. Dawn lands
like an uppercut—nothing like you.

I've forgotten last March. And May
promises to blur as soon as I clear
moth-eaten silks from the drawer.
How wonderful it is this time of year

to not be in love. Outside, the ducks
resume a violet shouting, malachite
drakes hitting dun-colored targets,

the cads inflaming the pond, disturbing
(not me, not me) brackish water,
air-encumbered light.

Copyright © 2007 B.T. Shaw All rights reserved
from The Seattle Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission