#wild spring

[kamsa666]

[eleindanilo]

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[sansura]

Wild Spring

Because we were young                              our picnic Was hard-boiled eggs & black coffee in a flask. Because it was the last snow of winter, the cross-country walkers                        were ants Ants lost in sugar & the walks Knife-edge creases blueing on a table-cloth.                     In the brasserie you emptied Sachet after sachet of free sugar into the thermos. You said believe me, in Spring the mountains                     &   foothills are something else. I stayed.

We stayed. I have never seen so many narcissi,              so pale a battlefield. Because they were wild, cock-eyed,              never spoken to in this world, They peered out like orphans Where we stood admiring, incredulous.             A dream of wild spring, dawn-lovers, Making their own dawn,  skull-colored. So light at the entrance & exit  of the world          each held a little dry silk Under the chin, a non-color      dew-ridden Awesome in the pale field. Each stalk was making its own paper That was what the field sounded like : Scissors,   Paper,   Dew.    The bees that came Later would from courtesy & innate industry Extend what they could out of wax                     so helped us into summer. The cloche of providence that each held!

How young we were in that vale      still dazed from the fall Amongst the dry narcissi & dead bees, Loving oblivion for its sugar,  the stealth of dew on dew Scissors on paper,  how young  —  &  embattled. Keen as the first breath one draws, The wild spring that year,  —  you recall? Do—Not.     What with each breath betrays, Losers take all.

WONG MAY

A Public Space Issue 22 - Winter 2015

[rabbit-light]

Wild Spring

Because we were young                               our picnic Was hard-boiled eggs & black coffee in a flask. Because it was the last snow of winter, the cross-country walkers                         were ants Ants lost in sugar & the walks Knife-edge creases blueing on a table-cloth.                      In the brasserie you emptied Sachet after sachet of free sugar into the thermos. You said believe me, in Spring the mountains                      &   foothills are something else. I stayed.

We stayed. I have never seen so many narcissi,               so pale a battlefield. Because they were wild, cock-eyed,               never spoken to in this world, They peered out like orphans Where we stood admiring, incredulous.              A dream of wild spring, dawn-lovers, Making their own dawn,  skull-colored. So light at the entrance & exit  of the world           each held a little dry silk Under the chin, a non-color       dew-ridden Awesome in the pale field. Each stalk was making its own paper That was what the field sounded like : Scissors,   Paper,   Dew.    The bees that came Later would from courtesy & innate industry Extend what they could out of wax                      so helped us into summer. The cloche of providence that each held!

How young we were in that vale       still dazed from the fall Amongst the dry narcissi & dead bees, Loving oblivion for its sugar,  the stealth of dew on dew Scissors on paper,  how young  —  &  embattled. Keen as the first breath one draws, The wild spring that year,  —  you recall? Do—Not.     What with each breath betrays, Losers take all.

Wong May