Le Printemps

I hate spring,
I hate the world so ebullient,
the morning light so frothy like
well-whipped lemon juice.

I prefer the winter,
where the world is bathed in shades of gray.
Where the wind carries sentiments,
not suggestions.

Where the clouds carry themselves
with the girth and depth of prideful hefty old mothers,
not with the slow wistfulness of foolish foppish girls grazing into a summer swath.


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