Spring arrives in southern Maryland
like a drunk at a party.
No subtlety, she
slams open the door and enters shouting,
tripping over herself
in a garishly colored frenzy.
Red lipstick askew,
her hues argue amongst themselves
competing for attention.
The forcefulness of forsythia,
the hysteria of wisteria
push and shove for center stage
amidst the brash green grass.
She leaves a coating of pale yellow pollen
on the street
on the cars
on us.
We choke on her perfume.
It rains
suddenly,
forcefully,
precipitous sobs of incoherence,
then stops just as suddenly.
Jaundiced puddles of dust and water
are left behind.
Dirty pools of slurry,
like a drink spilled
in an ashtray.
Her exhibition repeats daily
until she exhausts herself,
collapsing into the damp, overheated heap
of summer.
1 comment:
Your mention of the yellow dust makes me think of the wattle trees blooming for us right now. Under each, the ground is dusted and they arent good for the allergies.
Lovely fun poem
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