What is this frost after frost in May?
Sheltering my flowers from the cold.
I look at the silver on the grass,
scintillating cold,
face of white rapture,
and am softened.
But why must spring
play such tricks with itself,
hemming and hawing,
as an ingenue enters a dance floor,
to flirt,
to tease,
or fly with feet of joy?
I am the poor gardener,
the boy at the window,
the old beggar,
wanting his turn.
Wanting to put out his impatiens,
his argyle colors of rouge and white,
begonias of orange and yellow.
But the cold comes and stays,
falls like the breath of faraway dreams
rising from the snow.
A lunar sea of ice
looking through the door of spring,
seeing the festival about to begin,
in love with its cold lips,
and refusing to go.
It’s time to leave.
Time to let the summer in.
To let the sun have its day.
Let my garden bloom
like a girl with red cheeks,
and eyes of rainbows.
No more cold.
I love the austerity of winter.
Its planetary lines and geometry,
but my heart needs seasons
to keep track of time,
to see fresh horizons,
and read stories of awakening,
that expand the soul.
It’s time.
Let summer have its turn!