Southern Spring

Comes on slowly,
you expect it after break.

In the greening of the trees and
the yellowing of the bushes and
the browning of the skin
that
March and April bring.

The scents, sights, sounds –
expressions of the
Southern swing
in the southern spring,

as the mountains sing
and the valleys ring

on

through

the warming of the nights and
the knowing that she might
stay and linger
to the coming of the light.

Bringing on the beauty
in the heating of the days,
in the freeing of her ways,

so gently,

gently
wafts the breeze –

she sways

and falls into your arms

and stays.

Sprung, spring is –
’til all is done.

(written in a taxicab between Citicorp Center and Grand Central Station, Manhattan, Fall ’89)

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