Quick Ode to the Season At Hand

I feel my love is rich
And relish the thought
Of painting it on things
Like the greenest moss
On the blackest trees.
Spent supple in the sagging rain
Of busy nights.
Bulging with the spread that
Brings forth days like this.
We find the spirit heaving in our chest,
Dashed with pale florets and
Shy before the memory of winter,
Still stuck in our legs.
The young blush of a wink
From some foreign admiration
Propels us astral into passion for what was commonplace
Not weeks ago.
This kind of busy night rain,
As ghostly in transpiring its creation as
Cement’s most pivotal hour;
A footprint caught and now
As immoveable as the feeling of love’s wealth.