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Spring Is Like a Young, Wonderful Woman

Spring

Spring is like a young, wonderful woman.

When she comes round, I am a man.

Just look at those soft, shapely hills.

I can gaze at them for hours,

And she’ll wave back from each new flower,

But, I must wait.

 

Always is the air full of her fragrance

As if she just flew by on wings.

From a sunbeam she will step down

And tap me on the shoulder,

Making me feel I’ll never grow older,

And that is totally great.

 

I’m absolutely certain she isn’t

Just some poet’s fancy on the fly.

The fresh, young green is her domain,

And it is her lovely custom

To each morning hang a fuller blossom

Around the trees.

 

Her voice is ringing with the morning thrushes

While I am listening behind a bush.

I cannot see her—she’s so quick.

I often find myself musing:

What would my life be without her moving

High with each breeze. 

 

Warm qualities abound in her nature,

And all day long she’ll cast them here.

Incredibly bright is her smile

And wider than each horizon.

Loudly she will laugh, shaking the heavens,

Making them rain.

 

Cooler qualities arise in her also,

But not for long. The rain will go,

And soon she’ll descend from the clouds,

Scattering her freshest blessings,

Meanwhile vibrantly taking possession

Of earth again.

 

And so she dances through her season,

And everywhere I follow her signs.

Sometimes, on quiet afternoons,

I’d swear I was getting closer—

Yes, I know I’m afraid to lose her.

She knows that, too.

 

She may withdraw by night into darkness

Where stars remind me of her eyes,

But then she rises with the moon.

Her hair on the night wind streaming

Gives ample opportunity for dreaming

Of what I’d like to do.

 

There’ll come a day when she’ll be summer

To tease me yet another year.

She is eternal and I am human.

Perhaps she is the goddess of nature.

Perhaps I was some god once who loved her

When we were young.

 

Yet if she stops being that one woman,

I’ll wait for her with all mankind.

She’s dear to me like beauty’s bloom.

Someday, I shan’t be around her,

But she will linger where you’ll find her

In song after song.

 

 

 

 

Published in The Eclectic Muse, 2003

Photo by Ales Me on Unsplash