This may not be the moment you propose
To change the world, to bring it budding on.
I can't remember anyone who chose
A season: this became the house of sun
Without you. It will fall. These are the days
Of rain and roses. There the clover lies,
Bumbling with bees and ready to be mown;
And if now cut, then what? It will come down
Soon enough. Happens, where the lift of birds
Desperate to get it on, is just the place
For acrobats who do not know the words
To set the songs they sing. They interface
And separate and scold. And when the price
Is to be paid, these are their bids, these bards.
3 comments:
my son has a fear fascination thing with Primavera by Vivaldi. He can only listen to it once in a while. I'd love to know how he hears it, just as I enjoy reading how you see it, though I'm not saying this is a primavera poem. Nevermind me, I'm not coherent yet.
Unusual fear, that. How does he feel about pasta primavera?
a little uneasy, to tell you the truth, but also intrigued.
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