Spring Sonnet

A summer's storm on the first day of spring;
A too hot room at night (thunder's rumble).
This bittersweet nostalgia of a 
past I—at one weak point—hoped to forsake.
A composite memory honey-dipped
on that vernal equinox. No silent 
snows here; here: grumbling gods toss and turn in 
a dark and cumulonimbus somnus.

Electric blue now smells of pollinic
green. Oak, swift guardian of the forest, 
weather your seed in tender spring showers.
Nature, nurture: grow unrestrained once more.

No ending discursive coda. Instead,
a refreshing spring refrain: renewal. 

 

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March 2022