the Passing memories of Spring

The capalta stopped shedding it's leaves today.

The month of October has killed it’s beauty.

There is nothing more I’d love to do

than pluck

All it’s branches for a nice bouquet.

I clench my teeth and shrug myself off

In the middle of spring’s tantrum.

It casts away it’s oldest child

And father’s something else.

My eyes see more than I ever dreamed.

More than wisdom is revealed with age;

More like clover and bracken and titan arum

than the roses you’re told smell nice.

Enough. I fear

the damage has been done. And I,

stand before you with my memory blanking.

But I know Enough to make this decision

All on my own.

Spring is my least favorite season.

So many bees and bugs and billions of

spores.

So much blooms and bristles. It's beauty is priceless, resurrected only by

March’s madness.

But I know it’s necessary

for summer’s return.

But that doesn’t change the fact

that the lion ate the lambs.

And now there’s nothing left for it to eat.

And now it is starving.

Saplings are weak and pliable.

They soak up whatever they can.

They cannot tell the difference

between water and varnish.

When the lambs cut their leaves short,

And the lion cuts the lambs short,

all possibilities are absolute.

Now I’ve placed my faith

in a large overgrown tree

That shrivels up after summer breathes it’s final breath.

All these years have worn away

my pride and trust anything floral.

Rubber and steel snap against the floor

followed by a swift gale.

Oh! How it howled

How it chilled me to my core!

How it swept away the wolves and lambs alike;

frightened the townsfolk and tourists alike.

And devoured all the heartwarming memories

of Spring.