It is Spring.
Or so they say.
The first day of that season,
which calls to new things. Green and bright.
The vernal equinox.
glitter, and night.
I find Spring to be short-lived.
Perhaps it’s maudlin of me.
Spring seems easy. So colorful; flowers gold and purple.
But Spring is hard and born of death.
All the rotted things of Fall and Winter ,
feasted on by the bright young cannibals of the now.
Fantasy wardrobes spun from worm-tossed bulbs left under snow,