Spring Song

 

In the symmetry of seasons we have spring

today, winter tomorrow, spring again
the rest of the week, but all without the edge,
the knifeblade chill, that fall is always flaunting.
Something is happening here, and it is green.

Runners keep trying to run in shorts, retreating
to polar fleece, renaturing bare skin.
The snowdrops are almost done before the crocus
are more than scallions. Every day the stalks
need Lebensluft and take it. Every day

the light advances on the night, the poise
of seasons, symmetry and share alike,
spins on the scented air, which can be spent
but never saved. Accumulation fails;
and winter waits in Wollongong, or somewhere.