Spring

Eyes dumb with no love to speak of,
Only the heart breaks in the right syllables.
How would you chronicle that then?
Dignity is a pig-headed groom

Pining for love at the alter of a season,
But I’m competent enough to croon
For the foolery of two, on standby in a greenroom
Waiting for flowers to end: I employ

A claque of dying leaves right on cue
To applaud Spring out of its trite misery.
Spring, Spring, sewn into the meadow
Like a trillion billowing buttons yellowing

A riot of stalks. Come split this room
With me. Life is a too, too long script
Of floral pleas, a second coming would arrive
In disguise, might be a mightier one, if I were

In need of redundant pungency.
Trees are a rumor ushering in bruised fruit,
The air, punctured with wind chimes
Smarts the perfumed apparatus with perfidious tidings.

Winter, Winter, what have you nominated
Causing no sentiment or untaught fling?
The fluted crime of greenery pumping a gasket,
Uncalled-for, this unabashed impinging.

Copyright © 2007 Jennifer Juneau All rights reserved
from The American Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission