Trial Season (Poem)

Trial Season

Only yesterday
earth was cut-away layers
of browned forgotten bloom,
the tired slog going on.

But things happen.

        Images run together
        quickly.

Winter slinks away,
slow, like an old man
making do with a gimp left leg.

Spring starts up
a widespread yellow operation
dressed for the challenge,
armed with emerald swords.

        Tiny eruptions
        surround themselves
        with unclaimed crowns,
        circles of fire.

It's a mystery mixing you up.

        One day the wind shakes out pollen,
        smuggled gold, gods of love;
        the next, glimmers of honey, shimmering bronzes,
        the colors of light in the south of France.

Summer just as soon changes heart,
waves colors like an invader his banners
before committing suicide
on a city sidewalk in front of you.

        Unbuttoned buds turn scarlet
        small and round and infectious
        in the hand invited to touch
        small and round and viral,
        a violet more intense than blood
        on the hand squeezed with passion.

You think,
this is no big secret

        this yellow to blue to red
        then again to red.

         You think what you like most is
         the sureness of it,
         how you can count on it
         coming back
         like a lover you've argued with.

Copyright Maureen E. Doallas. All Rights Reserved.