Come, let's be dignitaries of Spring.
Let's toss innumerable red bottles
into marked bins, and fill the empty fridge
with crates of indoor discontent, then lock it.
We'll tumble through fields,
discuss symmetry with the bristling grass
and wish the green blades were caressing fingertips
cradling our weight on the stomach of the Earth.
Let's get drunk on tulip nectar,
make dandelion weed crowns
and chain-blow spheres of floating seeds,
yelling, "Lift off!" or "Propagating parachutes away,"
as they drift to far reaches of the yard.
Let's disrobe, shake off, and compost the winter blues,
swaddle ourselves in picnic blankets,
unravel, then marvel
at how our skin looks different,
but fits so well together.
In the evening, we'll stare at stars
and try to catch constellations
in butterfly nets we found in the shed.
After, as we cup glowing stories
in our palms, and nestle their warmth
against our sides, we'll fall asleep dreaming
of infinite days, while spiders
spin gossamer into strands of our hair.
